Heartless: Leaving Dusk
by pottersweetie
Summary: Before Rosalie was a vampire, she had a life. She had a family and friends. Her best friend, Vera. Ideals. Hopes. But it was all ripped away from her in the course of one night. This is the story of Rosalie's humanity, Part 1 of Heartless.
1. Prologue

**Heartless  
**By: pottersweetie

**Author's Note:** I ran from this story-idea like it was the plague, I really did. I have so many fan fictions I'm working on, too many that I've neglected, and I really shouldn't be starting another one. However, like Rosalie, this story-idea was stubborn and relentless, and I couldn't ignore it. So, here you go. It's in Rosalie's point of view. Enjoy, Read, Review!

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**Prologue**

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I don't know how I got here. I mean- Of course- technically- I know, but I can't understand how it happened.

After all the things I've been through in my existence- all the things I've been through that have turned me cold and 'heartless,' as people have liked to call me- I can't believe that I'm in the position I am currently in. It wasn't my sheltered upbringing, because that made me spoiled, naive and shallow. It wasn't my first engagement, botched by rape and murder- no, that certainly wouldn't make me any more sympathetic and- content?- with this situation. My transformation from human to unbelievably beautiful monster- when my heart stopped beating (I might as well be heartless, in every sense of the word)? it only makes me even more surprised at my own feelings now. Meeting my soul mate, finding a family that cares about me, regardless of vanity or power- all of these things are wonderful, yes, but not enough for me to think I could get here, to this point of my being.

How can things have come so full circle?

No one has ever had any patience for my selective attitude toward people. When it came to my childhood friends, my first fiance, my soul mate, my intense disliking for the human girl my adopted brother chose to love for eternity, they never understood why I made the choices I made. And sometimes, they got angry with me, because I wasn't as easy to appease, or as easy to win over. I wonder if anyone will ever actually get why I do the things I do- why I've done the things I've done- as long as I exist.

In fits of anger and impatience, people have said, "Don't you have a heart?" or "You're heartless!" And I wonder, what does heart have to do with anything? Mine hasn't been beating for decades, and I haven't changed all that much in my way of thinking (except for my aversion to humans). Whether I could stand to be friendly with Mary Beth in a 1921 Rochester, because she was rude and unkempt, or whether or not I could stand the human girl the first time I knew my brother loved her- heart is just not a part of it.

So, if people think having a heart means being sympathetic and understanding, unnecessarily compassionate and easy to win over, than, no, I won't deny it- I've been heartless my whole existence. But I've got my reasons- and maybe I wasn't always right, but I stand by every single one of them.

And if I've always been heartless- if I _am_ heartless- how is this happening now? How is sympathy and compassion coming so easily for me? towards someone I hated only months ago? Everyone has their ideas, incorrect and assuming; even my mind-reading brother doesn't seem to comprehend my thought processes now. _No one_ gets it, and I'm not sure anyone ever could. This is more than selfishness, isn't it? Sharing isn't the same as having something for your own... I've never been one to share anyway. No- now- this is about complete selflessness. And if people perceive me as heartless because of my being selfless, well- that's nothing new, is it? There's nothing in it for me anymore- I guess I knew there never really was- yet I'm still fighting for them, and I don't care if I'm ripped apart and burned in doing so.

I'm heartless? You don't know enough to even think about calling me heartless. I'll tell you everything. And then I'll allow you to be the judge.

I am Rosalie Lillian Hale, and this is my story.

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**Author's Note:** The chapters won't always be this short. At all. They'll be kind of long, but that's inevitable. And necessary. Hope you enjoyed the prologue!


	2. The Beginning

**Author's Note:** Thank you for reviewing! And a special thank you to anyone who added it to your alerts or favorites! This story is a baby just yet, and I really appreciate the faith it's received so far! Hope it doesn't disappoint! Here is chapter one!  
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**Part One  
Leaving Dusk**

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**Chapter One  
The Beginning  
December 5, 1915-August 19, 1920**

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I was born in Rochester, New York, on December fifth, nineteen-fifteen. There was an early winter snow storm outside, as my poor mother went through an almost-twenty-four-hour labor. The snow was so bad that my father's assistant was almost incapable of finding his way to the hospital to get our physician. He had plenty of time to find him and get back to the house though, because I refused to actually make my appearance on time. Instead, my mother went through an entire day of pain and perspiration, and my father went through about a half a dozen packs of cigarettes. Our maid and our cook sat in the kitchen, their duties forgotten, fretting over the difficult birth and the stress on my mother and her unborn child. Maybe I stalled as long as I could, because I knew how much attention my mother and I were getting, but- is it possible for an unborn baby to do what it wants, simply because it wants to?- I don't actually think that's the case.

Once I had entered the world though, I was fawned over immediately.

My aunts and uncles, cousins, grandparents, and family friends, all cooed and sighed over my cradle for months after I was born. I was only a baby, but they all gushed about how beautiful I was- about how the difficult birth hadn't marred me in any possible way. Comments were made to allude to my beauty, and how it would mature and blossom. "She'll break hearts, George," they told my father. "She's going to be exquisite, Jane. You are truly lucky to have such a beautiful daughter," they'd flatter my mother. And they were right.

It took no time at all for people to notice the thick, soft, golden hair that cropped up on my soft baby-head. From day one people were awed by my big, thick-lashed, blue eyes. The intense stares I gave people, even as an infant, would stop people in their tracks, making them ask my mother what my name was, about my age, complimenting her on the beauty she had, essentially, created.

"Rosalie," she would tell them, when they did ask for my name. And then the stranger (if Mother found them decent enough) would lean over my pram, cooing things like "she's a beautiful little Rose" or "what an enchanting little girl- little Rosie." No one I knew ever actually called me Rosie- not as a baby, and certainly not as an eighteen year old. Occasionally, a teacher, a family friend, or a classmate would make the mistake of using that nickname, and the look I gave them was usually so disconcerting that they would never do it again. 'Rose' I didn't mind, but Rosie was simply out of the question. As a baby, I obviously couldn't object to being called Rosie (I didn't know how to produce a scathing glare, with only a few months under my life-belt), but Mother fought for me. "No," she would say. "It's Rosalie."

Whatever people preferred to call me, and whatever was allowed, everyone knew I was something special.

Well, I wasn't brilliantly intelligent. Actually, I didn't even speak until well after my first birthday. I like to think that there was more to it than a simple mind. Honestly- and I still feel this way in certain situations- I think I just didn't see the point in forming words. Once I realized what I could _get_ out of speaking, I picked it up quickly. _Oh, if I say 'Mama' and 'flower' I get even more attention?_ So, after a month or two following my first birthday, I was speaking in full sentences, because of the sheer thrill I got when people gave me attention for speaking. No, I'm not simple-minded, thank you very much.

I walked and grew and ran and jumped at a relatively normal rate. People liked when I did something new, so I would attempt to dance or skip if I had never done it before. If my father was sitting in his chair in the parlor, smoking a pipe, with his ankle perched on his thigh? I tried to imitate him, because everyone seemed to love things like that. So, as you can see, from day one I understood it, and I loved it, and that was okay.

It was in the department of appearance that people really marveled as I aged, but, somehow, I wasn't aware of it at first.

At one year old people noticed my hair, made up of thick little curls, and they saw my fine eyebrows and my long eyelashes. It was after one year that those eyes took full affect on people.

Subconsciously, I managed to look at someone a certain way when I wanted to convey a certain feeling. I was angry with you? you were going to get a one-year-old's glare. I was excited? my eyes would light up and you would melt. I was not allowed to feed the ducks in the park? my eyes would beg you until you felt so bad you'd think otherwise. At one I was capable of this, without even meaning to be- but, at two, I had perfected it.

That's when Mother became pregnant again.

All of a sudden the attention was shifted from me, and I felt cold and lonely. Mother was receiving all the attention, and my nursery was being taken over, infiltrated with blue. The new cradle was put up, taunting me from the across the room, and I glared at it, as if it minded my eyes like everyone else did. I began to cling to any attention I could get. Desperation- that's the word that comes to mind when I think of my competing with this fetus. I cried more often, and sometimes no one noticed because I was doing it all alone, in the nursery, with the door shut. It sounds so pathetic, but that's how I felt at the time.

Charles Murphy Hale was born on June 23, 1918.

I was determined to hate him, but it was hard. Before I saw him, when everyone was fretting over the delivery and the care of the newborn baby, I really did loathe him.

"Do you want to see your new brother?" Father asked me.

Crossing my little arms and shaking my curls, I said, "No!" My brow furrowed and my lips pursed. He just laughed and picked me up, taking me to the baby.

Charles was pudgy and pink. His eyes were closed and his lips were pursed so comedically, with his little hands balled into fists. I was surprised to see the hair on his head was actually light brown, but I was assured that his eyes were just as blue as mine. And, I had meant to be angry that he had my special eyes, but I couldn't be. He was just too adorable and defenseless.

It took about one half of a second for me to feel like his big sister- for me to become his protector.

* * *

When Charles got roseola, I was nearly four. And I was the first to discover it.

I went into the nursery, knowing that he was supposed to be woken up from his nap and fed within moments anyway. My intentions had been to read a book to him- I couldn't read, but I liked to pretend. So, when I crept into the room, and peered over the bars of his crib, I said something like, "Charles, I'm gonna read to ya now," in my misshapen toddler-speak. But I didn't begin to read my father's Greek philosophy book (which is what I had picked up), because something wasn't right about my baby brother. His eyes were open, but he looked sleepy and out-of-it, and he was flushed bright red. I noticed the sweat beading along his hairline, and that's when I knew something wasn't right.

At first, I didn't do anything. Then, we made eye contact. We stared at each other for a good minute- and I can actually remember this, even now- but nothing happened at first. Then, it seemed his skin flushed even more, and I was incredibly afraid.

I remember running from the room, screaming, "Charles- Red! Charles is red!" I can still see the carpeted stairs as I raced down them, and the look Cooky (our old maid) gave me when I passed her in the dining room. Throwing open father's study door- and I wasn't supposed to do this when he was relaxing before dinner- I continued screaming the same two words over and over again. Father put his pipe down, unlit, and followed me up the stairs, with mother meeting us at the landing.

They both saw what I had seen, and they knew something was wrong. The doctor was called, and the diagnosis made. After he left, I was quarantined to the guest room, forbidden from my own nursery.

"Charles is very sick," they told me. "If you go in the nursery, you could get sick too."

For some unfathomable reason, I blamed myself for his getting sick, and it made it much worse that I couldn't be there for him when he was ill. And the second day of his dangerously high fever, he started going into fits that I could hear from across the house. He would scream, sounding as if someone was trying to kill him, and I would start crying. Cooky would take me into the basement kitchen, and she and the cook sang gospels at the top of their lungs for me, prodding me until I joined in. The noise echoed in the kitchen, and, ultimately, drowned out Charles's cries, and my fear for him.

Luckily, the fever broke after four days, but a slight rash was left over. Mother and Father mentioned it at breakfast on that fourth day, when I still wasn't allowed to see him, and I was intrigued by the idea of it. In the middle of the night, I snuck into the nursery, and took a peek of this rash for myself. It mottled his neck and his stomach with red, and it looked as if it was almost scaly. I thought my brother was some kind of mutant. I ran from the room.

In the guest room, there was a mirror, and I looked into it. I saw my perfect, creamy, smooth skin, and then thought of my brother. Was I going to get the horrible, ugly rash? just by going into the room for a moment? I was so paranoid about having that ugliness become a part of me, that I got nervous. Was the sickness in my body, breathed in when I stood by the cradle? I was so sure that it was inside me, and that I couldn't get it out, so I stayed up all night, whimpering and gasping for clean air in the dark, uncontaminated guest room.

It was the first time I worried about something so much, and it had nothing to do with my health.

I was entirely worried that I would get the rash.

I didn't think I was beautiful yet, but I _was_ worried that it would make me ugly.

* * *

"Charles, you can't," I told my three year old brother as we stood on the landing before breakfast. "You must wait for the princess to go first."

He stared at me, scowling a little.

My eyes threw a question at him, "What? _You_ decided to be the beggar," I reminded him.

"I dun wanna!" he shouted, much louder than was necessary.

"Charles," I scolded. "We've already made the rules."

He shook his head and jutted his chin out, "Nuh-uh!"

I made a move to go down the stairs first, but he held me back. We began a squabble, throwing pathetically immature remarks at one another. Neither of us was in school yet, so it was all incoherent words strung together, hoping to sound mean and hurtful and angry. I'm not sure how long we fought one another- physically and verbally- on the steps that morning, but I do remember Cooky came into the foyer and laughed at us.

"Your parents are waitin' on you for breakfast," she warned us.

I scowled at Charles, pulled him back, and raced down the stairs before he could fight me over it. A smile spread over my face, as I realized my victory. But when I entered the dining room, with my brother close at my heels, my father was shouting. He looked extremely annoyed, and he was red in the face- the way he got when he didn't want people to realize how badly something upset him.

"These women spend months being suicidal- starving themselves like lunatics- and now they're being rewarded?!" he sounded incredulous, and he slammed a folded newspaper down onto the floor. "Absolute insanity!"

Mother tried to quiet him, "George, maybe not so loud-"

"Why?!" he boomed, and I jumped in my place in the doorway. "Are the suffragettes going to come down from Washington and starve themselves on my doorstep because I've said it?" he snorted bitterly. "Why can't they win their battles the proper why- Why did they have to go absolutely insane during the war?"

"Well," Mother began timidly. "They _had_ been picketing before the war- Wilson just had them arrested-"

Father cut her off, "It wasn't Wilson! Don't go blaming our own president for their impertinence!"

Mother looked away, noticing us in the doorway. She forced herself to brighten up considerably, and beckoned us inside. Charles and I took our places at the table and breakfast commenced. But, the three year old Charles was tactless and curious, and wanted to know what the yelling had been about. He asked them outright.

Father snorted again and shook his head, digging into his eggs.

"The Constitution of our country has been amended," Mother told us. "Women are now guaranteed the right to vote."

Charles turned to Father, "You dun like it, Fadder?"

"I don't like the way they went about it," he snapped, ducking his head a little in shame at his own outburst.

I turned to Mother, "How did they do it?"

"Drastically," she replied. "But, it worked."

Father looked annoyed, but Mother looked positively beside herself. I smiled too, while Charles chose to switch between smiling and grimacing.

"I can vote when I'm grown?" I asked. I didn't understand what voting entailed, or what it would mean, but that made no difference to me.

Mother smiled and nodded, but Father rolled his eyes a little, saying, "Why would you want to vote, Rose? You're much too pretty to get involved in politics!"

Pretty?

People had always called me pretty, but, could there be such a thing as _too_ pretty? and could I be it?

"Too pretty?" I reiterated.

"You can be as beautiful as you are and still vote when you're older, Rosalie," Mother told me encouragingly.

But, I was stuck on pretty.

"Am I pretty?" I asked.

Mother and Father both genuinely smiled then.

Father said, "You are beautiful."

"Surely you know that, tulip," Mother tapped my nose. "Everyone thinks so, and says so!"

That was true, and I realized it then.

For the first time, I knew that they were right- I knew that I was pretty. I knew that, at only five years old, I was truly, and knowingly, beautiful.

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**Author's Note:** I know there was a lot of description in the beginning, without a lot of dialogue. Sorry if it's slow and totally un**_Twilight_**-related for a few chapters. Rosalie's life wasn't all cryptic vampires in the beginning (as we well know). This is her life, from the beginning, to **_Breaking Dawn_**'s epilogue, so I have quite a lot to cover. The story will get there. Hope you liked chapter one! Reviewing is always appreciated!


	3. Ongoing Competition

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for the encouraging reviews! I'm glad no one is extremely opposed to the fact that there's hardly any **_Twilight_** in it yet. There is a bit about vampires in this chapter though. It's not very serious, but it's there. Hope you like it. Thanks for reading! Enjoy!

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**Chapter Two  
Ongoing Competition  
September 6, 1920-February 21, 1925**

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By the time September arrived, I had completely forgotten about women gaining the right to vote. Instead, I thought more about my looks, what affect my appearance had on people, and what was said to me, or about me, regarding the way I looked. No one else was conscious of my new obsession, because I was almost hoarding it as my own secret. For instance, I coveted my sneaking into the guest room every morning before anyone else woke up, just to look at myself in the mirror alone. And no one ever found out.

Well, Mother _did_ start to notice when I began bombarding her with questions I had rarely asked before.

"Does this dress make my eyes look pretty?"

"Mother, should I wear my hair this way?"

"Is it okay if I have a freckle behind my ear? Is that ugly at all, Mother?"

"Would it be better if I played inside? Away from the sunshine?"

She found it amusing. I thought of it as vital information.

That same year, I started playing more with the children in our neighborhood. We would play in one another's yards- boys and girls alike. We enacted games of pretend and competition, adventure and discovery.

The children of our street noticed my beauty, even though we were only three to seven years old. Whenever we played games of pretend I was, without question, the princess/queen/maiden/goddess etc. The girls fought this, wanting to play royalty themselves, but the boys always insisted that I looked the part more than they did. To be honest, this made me a little smug, and soon I believed I was so beautiful that I _deserved_ to be Princess Aurellia or Divinity, the Goddess of Timothy Scrall's backyard. I thought, 'I'm beautiful. Therefore, I deserve the best.'

Only one other girl on our street was deemed worthy of fighting for my positioning as royalty/goddess.

Vera Goodchild moved to Rochester, from New York City, in April of 1920. Because she had lived in the city, and because she was new, everyone looked upon her as something wonderfully foreign. The fact that she had long, onyx curls, beautiful, pale skin, and light blue eyes, made her even more exotic. She was beautiful, like me, but she was even more special because she was new, and because we knew nothing about her.

I instantly hated her.

Corinne and Bobby Price were the ones who invited her to play with us, a week and a half after she had moved in. They had been the only ones brave enough to do it. If I hadn't loathed the girl so much I would have done it myself, but I was passionately against her joining our group. Corinne called me out on this, saying, "Rosalie, you just don't want her to play with us because she'll be the princess instead of you!" I made up some story about how I didn't want to play with her because I had heard she was half-goblin (or something equally absurd). This only made the rest of the group even more interested in playing with her, and so Corinne and Bobby agreed to try to get her.

We all waited on Timothy Scrall's front lawn, watching the Goodchild's front door, four houses away, across the street. Whispers and nudges were passed around, but I stood above them all, my arms folded, jaw locked. I wasn't getting my way- I was going to have to share the position of princess or goddess with someone else. I wouldn't be revered by the group anymore- I would be average, like everyone else. I wanted to be special, but it seemed like that wasn't going to hold up much longer. I almost wanted to cry because of it, but I was too angry.

I tried to scare them out of playing with her, by saying, "If you all get attacked by her because she's a goblin, I won't stop her-"

"Shh!" Timothy shushed me. "Here they come!"

Corinne and Bobby returned with Vera, and we introduced ourselves. Upon closer inspection, she wasn't as pretty as me, but she was very close, so I was still defensive. We asked her why she had moved- about her whole life story, practically- and I continued to be cold to her.

She told us about how her mother had left the family in New York City for months, fighting for women's suffrage in Washington D.C., before being jailed for picketing in front of the White House. When she told us her mother nearly died in prison, the whole group was enthralled and awed by her stories. I was not impressed, I simply rolled my eyes. She then went on to tell us that as soon as her mother had returned to the city, and women had been given the right to vote, her father had decided it might be better if they moved somewhere less hectic with politics. (He didn't want his wife getting into suffragist trouble again.) So, they came to Rochester.

That day, Vera was granted the position of the fairy queen, Lilith. I was denoted to the position of Caroline, the maiden who happens upon the fairy kingdom. It wasn't the lowest position, but it wasn't the fairy queen. I was anything but pleased.

* * *

It was Vera who taught us all about vampires in October of 1921- Well, she taught us what she had learned, obviously not the truth.

On one of the last relatively warm days of the year, all of the neighborhood kids were perched on Mary Perf's stoop, trying to figure out something to do. Corinne suggested that we play royals and beggars again, but the boys said that was stupid. Timothy suggested we play pirates and captives, but all of the girls were sick of all the action we would have to watch if we did that. Finally, Vera said we should pretend we were vampires and humans.

I was five- yes, I was a mature little five year old, but I didn't know what a vampire was. My life was sheltered. My parents only read me wonderful stories about fairy princesses and magical mirrors. The worst I ever got in a bedtime story was an ugly wart-faced witch- terrifying in her ugliness, but nothing really intimidating. So, I was immediately intrigued by vampires. The way Vera allowed the word to escape her mouth- hushed and heavy- I knew that it was thrilling and scary. Of course, I wouldn't let her know that I was interested, because I was still defensive when it came to all things Vera Goodchild. Sure, the magic that had made her so irresistible that first summer she was here had worn off, but she was still pretty, and she still stole my position of queen or fairy every so often. So I pretended to be uninterested, picking at the grass of Mary's lawn.

The other children prompted Vera onward though, and we received a horribly mangled myth of bloodsucking corpses.

"They're dead- but they're not! And they need to drink blood to live!"

So far, half inaccurate.

"They're really white- And they sleep in coffins all day, because the sun burns them alive!"

Yes, she had it right with the pale part. Coffins and allergies to the sun? Very original.

"And if they bite you, you turn into a vampire too!"

I didn't know then, but it's a little more complicated than that.

"If you want to kill a vampire, the only way to do it is to drive a metal stake through their heart!"

I think she was mixing myths here, but even so... I didn't even know how far off she was from the truth. How would I know such a thing? My five year old brain drank in everything she told me, and held it as absolute truth.

Undead people who drank blood? How thrilling, in all its grisly truth!

We ended up playing vampires and humans that day. Half of us were vampires, and the other half were humans. When the vampire 'bit' you (tagged you) you became a vampire too. But if a human pushed a vampire into Mary's front walkway, they were 'destroyed by the sun.' Ironically enough, I was originally a human, but got turned into a vampire. Then, it was my goal to 'bite' Vera. I didn't care about tagging anyone else, but no one caught on. Bobby Price slipped past me the whole game, human, but I didn't tag him once. I was too focused on beating Vera.

My mentality was, that if she could challenge me when it came to looks, I could show her who was boss.

Eventually, I did tag her, and then Corinne managed to push her into the walkway. I was ecstatic. My self-esteem and determination were boosted for the rest of the game- which had somehow turned into 'every man for himself.' So, I focused on turning everyone else into a vampire, and then pushing them into the walkway. I managed to get all of the girls, and then all of the boys too. They argued it. "Rosalie cheated," the boys insisted mostly, because they couldn't stand being defeated by a girl- especially one known for playing the fairy and the princess. But I did win that day, regardless of what was argued.

That night, however, I couldn't fall asleep for a fresh fear of vampires. When I did manage to nod off, I had a nightmare that I would become a vampire and want to drink blood and be some kind of zombie.

I wonder if my subconscious was trying to warn me?

* * *

I started school in the fall of 1922, still in angry competition with Vera. She was just like everyone else now, the group realized, but only a little prettier. I, however, was still deemed the prettiest. But this didn't stop the kids from allowing Vera my role of princess or fairy queen, as much as they allowed it of me. I was convinced that I was far more beautiful than her, and that she didn't deserve it.

What's more, everyone knew that I hated her. Even Vera herself knew it, but it didn't seem to bother her. She didn't like me either, and she flipped her hair and smirked her pink lips at me any time she got to be Princess Aurellia, and I was stuck being the not-so-pretty, younger sister, Princess Joyce. But that only made me compete with her even more.

We were in the same class for our first year of school.

Our teacher, Miss Huitt, was young and beautiful. She wore expensive skirts and carefully-chosen jewelry. Her auburn hair was cut in the latest fashion- a bob- and perfectly waved. And every few hours she stopped to reapply her bright red lipstick.

I thought she was the most beautiful person I had ever seen, and I aspired to be her favorite.

Vera did as well.

We spent the whole year competing as class pet. Miss Huitt never actually realized. And by the end of the year, it was clear that the class favorite was Jimmy Nichols. Vera and I were both sour until summer- not speaking to each other, or to Jimmy.

When we returned for school the next year, our teacher was Mrs. Creak. She was old and gray, and round. Whenever you forgot to raise your hand, she thwacked your desk with her ruler and growled. Also, she smelled like cabbage and liver. All of the students were revolted by her, so there was no competition for Vera and I in the department of teacher's pet. However we managed to compete in other things all through the first years of school. Class recitals, spelling bees, holiday parties (who was the best social butterfly?), school projects, games at recess- anything we could compete in, we competed in.

* * *

My youngest brother, Stanley Earl Hale, was born on September 2, 1923.

Because of this, I was in the lead when it came to Vera's and my competition.

All the children of the neighborhood wanted to see the baby, wanted to watch him laugh and spit up. Everyone would be extra nice to me, just so I would take them into the nursery- one at a time- to see Stanley cooing in his cradle. And it didn't matter to me that all this attention was because of my brother- I was getting the attention, and Vera wasn't.

Our competition ended, however, in February of 1925.

We were in the same class again, and our teacher was Mr. McGillicutty. He was unusually tall, with hunched shoulders and an awkward way of shuffling his feet when he walked. With tiny glasses, he squinted all the time. Unless he was yelling at us, then his eyes were wide. He had greasy black hair that was graying, and extremely pale- almost yellowing- skin. And because he had teeth that were so crooked that they were almost jagged, the boys liked to call him a vampire.

It was towards the end of February that Timothy Scrall drew a picture of Mr. McGillicutty as a bloodsucking fiend. He didn't sign it, but when he passed it around the room during our math lesson, everyone knew it was he who had drawn it. However, our teacher did _not_ know that, and when the drawing got to my desk, he snatched it up and blamed me.

"Who do you think you are, Miss Hale?" he demanded, peering down at me angrily.

His eyes went from squinting to wide, squinting to wide, as I tried to tell him it wasn't me who had drawn it.

"Don't you dare talk back to me, young lady!" he snapped, spraying me with droplets of spit. "Hands out!"

I had never been hit in school before. Why would I have been? I never did anything that called for discipline. If I got into a fight with Vera or Corinne during recess, no one went to the teacher with it. And my teachers always saw me as little Rosalie Hale. To them I was an adorably beautiful student, that tried her hardest and usually won them over. Except Mr. McGillicutty. I think he hated me especially for my looks, and that was why he was so quick to blame me for the drawing. In any case, he wasn't going to listen to my defense because he already hated me. So, figuring I had no other alternative, I put out my hands and squeezed my eyes tight.

The slap of the ruler stung my palms and knocked my knuckles into my desk the first time. The second time he did it, it burned. It made my knuckles vibrate the third time. And the fourth time it made me bleed. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out when he raised the ruler again. I braced myself for the fifth blow, but it never came. Instead, Vera had shrieked, "Stop it!" causing Mr. McGillicutty to turn and stare at her.

"Excuse me, Miss Goodchild?" he asked.

"Please don't do it again, sir!" she squeaked, looking terrified.

He looked around the room, as if shocked by what he was witnessing before him, sneering, "Would you like a strike too, Miss Goodchild?"

"N-No," she cowered. "But Rosalie didn't draw the picture."

"Who did?"

She didn't want to reveal that it was Timothy, but she didn't want to dig herself a grave either.

Mr. McGillicutty drew his own conclusion, "Perhaps it was both you _and_ Miss Hale?"

"No!" she squeaked, wringing her hands.

"Well, then, since you both like things that are dark- Why don't we put you both somewhere appropriate?" he asked, grabbing my dress by the collar, and then grabbing Vera's arm, before dragging us both to the closet in the back of the room.

He made us stay in there until lunch.

For the few hours that we were stuck in there, amid piles of books and maps, Vera and I made our peace.

"Thanks," I whispered, too proud to say it loud, too afraid Mr. McGillicutty would hear me.

Vera smiled in the dark, "You're welcome."

We didn't say anything for some time.

When the lesson on the other side of the door switched from math, to geography, we listened, both wondering when our teacher would let us out. It was an irrational punishment to begin with, but we knew how out-of-control Mr. McGillicutty's temper could be. Still, we wondered how long it would last.

To ease things in the closet, and to pass time, Vera said, "You know- I've been thinking about the game of pirate royals we've been playing in Timothy's attic."

I tensed up, thinking that she was going to gloat about her role as pirate-queen Jessabelle, and then mock me for my role of hostage, Lady Gemma.

"Lady Gemma and Queen Jessabelle should probably work together as pirate princesses to fight the band of Egyptian warriors planning on attacking the ship," she told me.

My eyes widened, "The Egyptian warriors are going to attack the ship? I thought they were coming to share the ransom!"

"No!" she shook her head, glancing at the door conspiratorially. "I overheard Timothy and Bobby at recess- They're planning to take over!"

I gasped quietly, whispering still, "Then we have to team up!"

"Exactly!" she said, and we made our plan of pretend counterattack.

After that day, our competition was over. Vera and I were immediately best friends.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I know- Stories about kids playing pretend and everything isn't exactly foam-at-the-mouth-worthy, but Rosalie was a kid at one point, and I have to build up to her adulthood and then vampirehood. Anyway, thanks for reading- Reviewing is always appreciated!


	4. Attention Faults

**Author's Note:** Thank you, everyone, for the wonderful reviews! **Angeliss**, your review was especially appreciated! Thank you so much! I hope everyone likes chapter three!

* * *

**Chapter Three  
Attention Faults  
December 15, 1925-March 31, 1927**

* * *

My tenth birthday was a huge affair.

The dining room was transformed into a wonderland of balloons and streamers. A banner hung above the picture window in the far wall, with 'Happy Birthday Rosalie!' painted on it in pink. Confetti was scattered along the sideboard and down the middle of the table. And the end chair (Father's chair) held a paste crown with glass jewels in it, just for me.

All of the children in my class were invited, even though I argued with my mother about this.

"Not Mary Beth!"

"Rosalie," Mother scolded, giving me a sharp look. "Why have you always disliked Mary Beth?"

I was exasperated, because wasn't it obvious to everyone? I explained, "Mother, she's messy and dirty. And she's always so rude!"

Mother shook her head, "Rose, we can't invite everyone _except_ her-"

"Why do we have to invite everyone at all?" I implored.

She just gave me a look, and I knew I had no chance of changing who was invited or not (regardless of the fact that it was _my_ party).

So, everyone was invited, and their parents were encouraged to come if they'd like. There was one advantage to having everyone invited: No one stopped talking about it. I mean, there wasn't a whole lot of spectacular things going on in Rochester for us as ten year olds, so the party was a big deal. Everyone asked me what we were going to do at the party, what kind of food would be served, what I wanted as a gift, what they should wear- everything. I loved the attention, of course, and I was even more excited for when the day would actually arrive.

And on the weekend prior to my party, Mother took me into the city to buy a new dress, just for the party, because I was grown-up enough.

I remember shaking with excitement on the train, with Mother laughing at me. I had never been to the city before, and this was such a big event for me, that I let all of my facades of coolness slide. This was beyond anything I could have been aloof for- especially at ten. And when we actually got into the city and began our trek to the department store, I was practically grinning. I dragged my mother along, pointing out things as trivial as lampposts and side streets, giggling and bouncing excitedly. I had never seen so many people in one place before- had never seen buildings so close together- couldn't believe it- couldn't stand the wonder of it. Everything was so busy and electrified, even in 1925, and it made me buzz with excitement, and wonder, and naivete.

That day Mother bought me (with Father's money, of course) the most wonderful pale blue dress I had ever seen. It was made of velvet and lace, with long sleeves that puffed out slightly, cinching at the wrist with trim. The collar was rounded and fanned out fashionably, and I felt like a princess because of it all. With it, we also bought white stockings and new party shoes.

I could not have been more ecstatic.

* * *

On the day of my birthday, I hid in my room until everyone was in the dining room. From my bedroom (no longer in the nursery with the boys) I could hear laughing and shouting- the voices of my classmates, and my stomach fluttered excitedly. I was all dressed, and my hair had been specially curled, and adorned with a white, silk rose. I was ready, but I was biding my time. This was more than half of the thrill- the excitement leading up to getting the attention- so I waited until Cooky came and scolded me for dawdling.

Vibrating with excitement, I ascended the stairs and walked into the dining room. All of the kids (and even the adults) were assembled there, and when I entered they all clapped and cheered.

I think it was at that exact moment, that I realized just how much I liked receiving attention.

And that attention continued for the rest of the afternoon. Even after the adults had disappeared into the parlor for tea and desserts, and Cooky had taken over maintaining the party, parents came in and told me how pretty I looked, and that they hoped I had a very happy birthday. And of course all of the kids fought for my attention the whole time.

"Rosalie! Rosalie!" Timothy shouted from the other end of the table. "You're going to give me the biggest piece of cake, right?"

Vera: "Rosalie, you _must_ wear your hair like that when we play fairy royals again!"

"Remember when we had to draw that cake for Mrs. Woodrow, Rosalie? This cake looks just like that one!" said Molly Naltt with wide eyes.

Even Mary Beth tried to be nice to me, "You look so pretty Rosalie- I think you might really be a princess."

Whether people were telling me pointless things, reminding me of events that had never actually happened, complimenting me, or asking me for something, they all wanted my undivided attention. I basked in all of it. I absorbed this desire for my attention like it was my sunlight, my water, my air, my everything. It was sort of like discovering I could actually breathe for the first time, and I sucked up all the oxygen I could, greedy for more, afraid I would lose it at some point.

And I did. Everyone left before dinner. My birthday ended at midnight. And things went back to normal. But the damage was done- I was, from then on, a fiend, when it came to getting attention.

* * *

In competition against each other, Vera and I were good. But together, we were a force to be reckoned with- particularly when it came to getting attention.

We dominated when it came to playing with the other children and demanding attention in the classroom. Manipulation and deceit weren't needed anymore- we simply gained everyone's favor and attention, their praise and their respect, by being Vera and Rosalie. People appreciated our differences as individuals, but they appreciated us together as well. They realized that I was classically beautiful, fair and light. And that I was quieter- passive aggressive, unafraid. They also knew that Vera was darker, severe and surprising in her prettiness- and that she was a pistol when it counted.

The girl never thought about what she said or did. She shot off her mouth whenever she wanted to- called people things without considering their feelings- and was only afraid and shy after she realized what she had done. But I loved her for it. It was easy being the best friend that picked up the pieces of a thoughtless action. I pretended like it was this big thing, but really, I liked being the one who was calm and collected, and the one who smoothed over fights and drama in the neighborhood and at school. And even without her thoughtlessness, I loved Vera dearly- it felt like I had a wonderful sister.

_Yes_, I could say that I was never jealous of Vera again after we became friends in the closet at school. But, that's not true. At all.

She was my dearest friend, but she was also pretty and witty. When she was able to smack people with these insults that left them astounded, rather than upset, I envied her. When she complained about her crusader-mother, who was always going off to Washington D.C. and New York City, changing the world, I silently grumbled. When she whined about her father buying her too many dolls, I told her to enjoy it. When she acted nonchalant when it came to her vacations to France and Italy, Greece and Turkey, I told her to shut up.

Many a petty fight erupted between us because of our jealousies. But, in the end, we knew that we were best friends, and that was what counted the most.

* * *

I wasn't aware that there was such a thing as _bad attention_- the kind of attention you don't want at all, for whatever reason. Or that Vera and I could receive it.

I was only eleven when she and I were accosted by a young man on the way home from school.

It was the last day of March, and an impossibly beautiful afternoon. The sky was bright blue, with wispy clouds painted lightly here and there. Although a chilly breeze was blowing around us, it was all together warm for the time of year. We walked along one of the back roads that ran along the edge of an empty grass lot, on our way to our street. Were were alone, because we had stayed after school to help Miss Rawly plan some of the scenery for the spring pageant she was going to put on in May. But we walked leisurely, our arms linked, chattering about everything and anything, giggling and smiling.

We heard a whistling behind us before we saw the man who was doing it.

"What's that?" Vera had asked, looking over her shoulder.

I looked with her, and saw the man slinking toward us. He was dark-haired and crooked-backed, but that was all I could see from so many meters away. He was whistling provocatively at us, jiggling his hand at his side nervously. It's clear to me now that he had something wrong with him, but I couldn't have known that then. I just saw a young man walking toward us, strange and creeping, and I felt slightly nervous, mostly disgusted.

Grabbing my friend's arm, I said, "Come on," and steered her onward.

The whistling continued.

"Ignore him," I instructed Vera before she turned and looked again.

The street was abandoned, save for us, and the man's whistling made me anxious.

"Hey-Hey! Girls! What's the rush? Huh?" he called.

Vera looked back.

He continued, "Yeah-Yeah! Cuties!"

"He's talking to us," Vera whispered to me, as if we should stop and chat with him. "And he's getting closer-"

"Are you stupid or something?" I hissed at her. "We don't know who that is! Just ignore him."

And we walked on.

His legs were longer than ours though, and he caught up with us quickly. When he got in front of us, I finally got a good look at him. He had a layer of fine hair covering his face- not like any beard I had ever seen- and it was over his forehead, even. His eyes bulged slightly, and his crooked teeth protruded from his mouth, covered in a film of yellow and off-white decay. I wrinkled my nose, because he smelled awful too- like urine and manure- and because he revolted me.

Why did he think he could talk to us? What made him think he had the right? I wondered.

"Hello girlies," he leered, leaning toward us. "Want an after school treat?"

I didn't know what he was implying, but his words sounded crude. Listening to him, looking at him- being within a yard of him- made my skin crawl and my hands clench. _Run, Rosalie,_ something told me. My heart sped up, but I kept my cool outside. Giving him a scathing glare, I dug my nails into Vera's arm and pulled her around him. She stared at him, as if she didn't understand him and was unable to look away from him- even with his revolting attitude and appearance.

Vera stumbled along with me, and I hissed, "Come _on_!"

He got in front of us again, blocking our way. Before we could say anything though, he was fiddling with the buckle of his belt. I didn't know what he intended to do, or what he thought we wanted to do or see, but my gut-reaction was to run like hell. Vera was no longer interested in him, but disgusted and angry. I could tell by the look on her face that she was getting ready to verbally blast the creep to Hades. But I had no interest in telling him off. I just wanted to get away. Pulling at Vera did no good, she batted me away, put her hands on her hips, and scowled at the man defiantly.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" she pulled back and shouted.

That was Vera though- no regard for propriety or polite language.

I never would have dreamed of saying 'hell' in 1927.

"What makes you think we'd be interested in a dog like you?" she spat. "Arrogant fool!"

He wasn't listening to her though. Having opened his belt, he was now working on the buttons on his trousers. I tried to pull at Vera, but she was determined to give this guy what he deserved. However, I don't think she was capable of that, because he deserved a cell, and possibly a psychological doctor. She continued slashing him with her verbiage, regardless.

"Rosalie!"

For a moment, I thought it was the man saying my name, but then I looked behind me and saw my father hurrying toward us, with his briefcase in hand. The man undoing his pants heard my father and looked up, startled. Then he ran across the grass lot like a scared deer, disappearing into the block on the other side.

By that time, Vera was steamed up, but silent, with her hands clenched at her sides. I was confused and rattled, but relieved to see Father. He reached us and looked accusing and angry. I wasn't afraid of that though. We hadn't done anything wrong.

"Who was that man?" he demanded.

"Some creep," Vera muttered. When she noticed my father's expression, she added, "Sir."

Father asked, "What did he want?"

"He was going to pull down his pants right in front of us, sir," Vera shook her head, disgusted. "Fool-"

Upon hearing this, my father's face went red, and he grabbed me with his free hand. He barked at us and told us to hurry up, that we were going home. We followed him, exchanging curious glances back and forth as he steered us down the street, muttering angry things under his breath. When we reached Vera's house, Father said he would be calling her parents shortly, and then he dragged me home, looking even more angry and frustrated as the minutes passed.

When we got home, he slammed the door behind us, and all but pushed me into the front parlor.

Mother came down stairs, with Stanley and Charles not far behind her. She looked at me, and then at Father, who had thrown his briefcase onto the sofa.

"What is it?" she asked. "What happened?"

Seeing my two brothers, Father snapped, "Go to your room!"

They scampered away like obedient dogs.

"George," Mother began hesitantly, taking a small step forward. "What happened?"

Father was almost too angry to speak, but he managed, "Some scumbag stopped Rosalie and Vera Goodchild on the street on their way home," he shook his head. "Apparently he was going to open his trousers for them."

A disgusted gasp resounded from my mother, and she said, "But he didn't- Did he?"

"No, I reached them first- But your daughter just stood there!" He wheeled on me, "Did you provoke him?"

I stepped backward, "W-What?" I didn't understand.

"Did you make him open his trousers?" he barked, getting close to my face.

"George!" Mother scolded.

He glanced at her before turning to me again, "Don't you ever let a man do that again! Do you understand me?" I nodded, terrified of him. "No matter what they say about you, or what you think- Don't you ever let it happen again!"

"George," Mother said softly, trying to abate his harshness.

He stared down at me, and then seemed to realize himself. Tiredly, he said, "Go up to your room now."

I ran away before he could start yelling at me again.

Within the safety of my room, I cried, because I didn't know what else to do. I was confident and aloof- so, how had I let this happen? What did the man mean to do once he got his pants open? I didn't know at the time. I was young and naive. I was innocent and silly. But Father's scolding, and the way he all but blamed me, set my world ablaze, and I cried because I was angry, and because I felt so confused and nervous by it all.

Looking back on it, I guess that my father had been frightened of what that man could have done if he hadn't come home from work early. He had never been one to deal with his emotions in any proper way to begin with. His sadness and his fear were turned into anger automatically, and so it had been when it came to that man and his sick attempt. It just happened that I was the nearest and most reasonable outlet for his rage.

My father had told me to never let it happen again, and I told him that I wouldn't. I wasn't exactly sure how I could prevent that, but it hadn't been my fault to begin with- I would just be smarter next time. Little did I know, that next time I wouldn't be so lucky- that when anything like that happened again, I wouldn't be able to prevent any part of it.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Still building up her character and her childhood. Royce King will make an appearance in just a few chapters. And the Cullens will as well. Just a few more chapters! Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	5. Letting the Happiness Peak

**Author's Note:** Sorry this chapter took so long to be put up! School has started and things are crazy right now. Hope you all like the chapter though. The next will be up sooner, hopefully!

* * *

**Chapter Four  
Letting the Happiness Peak  
June 27, 1927-October 30, 1929**

* * *

The incident with the man in street was forgotten by summer.

It was in June- nearly three months after the incident- when Father bought our first car. It was a Ford Model T, and I fell in love with it instantly. As Mother, Charles, Stanley, and I, waited in the living room, anticipating Father's arrival, I was excited and impatient. The second I heard the honk at the end of the road, I launched myself outside, with Charles and Stanley by my side, and Mother telling us to slow down, from behind us. We only halted when we reached the end of the lawn, catching sight of the car as it moved toward us down the street.

Of course, I had seen cars before- we weren't _that_ sheltered- but this was _our_ car, and it took my breath away.

Father pulled it up, alongside the curb, smiling hugely as he leaned against the steering-wheel, "What do you think, kids?" he asked.

I gazed at the car in wonder. It was painted a dark, pearl-gray, with a black fabric top. The wheels and details were made of sleek onyx, and everything looked so sophisticated and beautiful. The silver around the headlights glimmered in the afternoon sun, and I could see my reflection in its surface. Peering into the car itself, I marveled at the leather seats, looking soft and plump- like the thrones of kings. The smile could not be pulled from my face as I relished the idea that this car was ours. I would be sitting in this car. I would be in this beautiful automobile, with my hair blowing around me. It was all so delicious to me.

"Can we go for a ride, Father?" five-year-old Stanley asked, bouncing up and down.

Appearing calm and nonchalant, I continued to gaze at the car, praying that Father would agree to a ride in the beautiful Ford. I wanted all of my friends to look out of their windows and see me driving down the street, looking glamorous and pretty in my sleek new car. I wanted everyone to see what Father had bought, what I would so enjoy. I wanted everyone to watch as we drove down the street. But that couldn't happen if Father didn't agree to a ride.

Chuckling- because he was obviously in a good mood- easily, Father said, "Yes-Yes! Let's go for a ride! Everyone in!"

Stanley and Charles squealed, but I maintained my cool. Father opened the back door for us, and the two boys scrambled inside. I easily stepped up and slid in beside them, closing the door behind me. Mother got into the front seat beside Father, and then we were on our way. Before we had even moved, I felt glamorous sitting in the car, on the stiff, leather seats. But when we actually began to drive, my body buzzed with a thrill and my heart thumped wonderfully fast. The car crept down the street, and Charles and Stanley squealed and bounced on their seats.

"Go faster! Go faster!" the boys chanted as we turned off of our street.

_Yes!_ I wanted to cry. _Faster still, oh please!_ But we kept at a good pace for the Ford (which is incredibly slow when I think back on it), and rolled down the streets of Rochester, waving and laughing and having a good time. Father was in such a good mood that he put everyone else into a happiness that only he could demand. He talked about maybe going on vacation with his boss's family that summer, about how things were going so well for us. Mother smiled and nodded and complimented him on his hard work at the bank, feeding him what he wanted to hear. Charles and Stanley asked him if they could have their own cars, if Father could take them fishing and camping every weekend, now that we had a car. And Father ate it all up, loving the admiration and praise his family was inadvertently, and obviously, giving him.

But, me- I just sat in the backrest, enjoying the fruits of being middle class, picturing what everyone else was seeing: a beautiful girl, riding in a beautiful car.

* * *

We didn't go to the beach with Father's boss that summer. Instead, we stayed with the Goodchild's at their summer home, Pleasant Green. It was a small, white house, located in the mountains of Pennsylvania, right on the Delaware River. The house itself was situated on a hill, with a dirt road winding down and around it. From the front porch of the house, you could see the Goodchild's barn, and the fenced off pasture for Vera and her mother's horses, Hero and Tinka. But, if you followed the trails, away from the house and through the woods, you eventually arrived at the river, and you could cross back over to New York if you swam across it.

There were only three bedrooms in Pleasant Green. Mr. and Mrs. Goodchild had one, Mother and Father had the second, and Vera and I had the third. Charles and Stanley were forced to sleep in the attic-turned-bedroom. And Vera's cousin, Warren, who was staying with the Goodchild's for the summer, while his parents toured Europe, usually slept on the hammock outside, or on the sofa in the living room.

The July we stayed at Pleasant Green was heavenly. We slept-in late and ate breakfast on the porch. Vera and I spent our days tromping through the woods, playing Indians or fairies- sometimes taking the horses with us. Sometimes we would join the boys and we'd all go swimming in the river. We had contests to see who could go farthest out in the river and who could swim fastest against the speedy current. We went through the woods, discovering waterfalls and springs, deer and frogs, and ancient Indian arrowheads. And then we'd stay up late, catching fireflies and telling ghost stories on the porch, after our parents had gone to sleep, finally retiring when we got drowsy.

Aside from how much fun I had with Vera and my brothers, and the fact that all of our parents were so much more laid back on vacation, there was another reason I loved Pleasant Green so much.

Warren.

Warren was fifteen years old, and he was adorable. He had untidy curls of dirty-blonde hair, and these intense, dark brown eyes. At Pleasant Green, he usually went fishing or hiking in the woods by himself. He thought the girls would slow him down, and that the boys were too young to be any fun. But, when he did grace us with his presence, he made my stomach flip and my lips retain a smile. He was quiet and serious, and I thought he was so perfect and mysterious. He was the first boy I ever liked, that I actually had the craving to touch- the first boy that I really wanted to kiss. But, he wounded my pride by not talking to me more than he did. I was sure it was because I was ugly- because I wasn't as beautiful as I always thought. I never considered the fact that he was just quiet.

I pined over Warren for the first weeks of July, and Vera never knew how I felt about him. She'd ask me why I was quiet, or why I was being so moody, and I would just tell her that it was because I was tired or sick of the woods, or some other form of nonsense.

Warren started to spend more time with us halfway through July though. I guess he realized, that for girls, we weren't so bad- and that he was sick of being by himself all the time. So, he came down with us to the river, and spent the evenings telling us the most ghoulish ghost stories he could think of in the dark of the woods. And for the first time, I was self-conscious. I was nervous with him there when we all swam in our underwear. I was aware of every move I made, how I looked at him, what my hair was doing, what my clothes looked like- whenever I was around him. For the majority of my life I had been so aware of my looks, and always so sure that I looked perfect, and that I was beautiful. But with Warren, I was always worried that I wasn't pretty enough- that I wasn't as beautiful as I had originally imagined.

It was towards the beginning of August- our last weekend at Pleasant Green. Vera was feeling nauseous from being in the sun too long, and her pale, pale skin was an angry red. She went to bed early with a cold washcloth, and told us that we should all have fun without her. But, Charles and Stanley had gotten in trouble at dinner for breaking Mrs. Goodchild's serving platter in a fist-fight, so they were forced to sit in the family room and stare at the wall. That left Warren and I. We weren't keen on the idea of sitting inside with my parents and his aunt and uncle for the night, so we went outside to find something to do.

Down in Hero and Tinka's pasture, you could lay on your back and see nothing but sky. So, with the two horses locked in the barn anyway, Warren and I found a clean patch of grass and laid down. Above us, the stars were brighter than I had ever seen them in Rochester, and they seemed to sparkle and wink down at us. The whole situation took my breath away. I had never laid in the grass with a boy- specifically, a boy that I liked- to look at the stars, and I was tingling with nervousness the whole time.

"What do you do for fun in the city, during the summer?" I asked him. I whispered, because I felt it would be sacrilegious to speak too loudly in the darkness of such a beautiful night.

It took Warren a moment too reply, and I was afraid it was because he thought I was ignorant and annoying. But he replied- quietly- and said, "We walk around- Sometimes we go to the movies."

"I've never been to a movie," I said wistfully.

"Never?" he sounded astonished.

I shook my head, "Mother and Father have never taken me."

"We should go to one when we get back to Rochester!" he said, still quietly, but excitedly. "They're the best!"

I knotted my eyebrows, "You're coming back to Rochester after we leave Pleasant Green?" I was thrilled by the idea, but it also made me even more nervous.

"Until the end of August- when my parents get back," he told me. "There's the Big Dipper," he pointed upward, and I followed his finger, finding the constellation with relative ease.

"Warren," I began, his voice feeling delicious on my lips, "Do you wish you'd gone to Europe with your parents?"

His hand dropped down to the grass, and he said, "No- They're just going to ballets and galleries, meeting lords and things. I'd rather be here, in the woods."

I was disappointed that he didn't say he was glad to be at Pleasant Green because I was here. I was twelve. I didn't learn until I was no longer human, that males can be so oblivious when it comes to attraction and romance. Even when you find someone perfect, and they really want to be romantic and sweet, sometimes they're just foolish. That's a man for you. You learn. But at twelve, I was crushed.

Warren didn't say anything else. And I didn't say anything. I was a quiet person, and so was he. I didn't find any reason to ruin silences with rushed speech and pointless words. He stayed within himself all the time. So there was silence between us as we lay in the grass, watching the stars flicker and shine. I wanted to say something, only because I was no nervous- but no words seemed appropriate, so I focused on the feel of the grass underneath me, of the shade of blue the sky was.

Suddenly, but slowly, Warren sat up, "Rosalie," he said.

I sat up as well, looking at him in the darkness, "What is it?"

My heart had pitched forward, and my whole body seemed to tingle with anticipation. Was he going to confess his love for me? or was he just going to suggest we go back inside? I waited, looking at him hopefully, carefully. I hoped there was no grass in my hair, but I couldn't bear to reach up and check, with him right there. And when he turned and looked at me, I hoped that I was beautiful, and I hoped that my eyes didn't give me away too much.

"Do your parents like me?"

What?

I was so brutally confused that my eyebrows knotted, and I looked in the grass for the answer. I told him, "I suppose so. What does that matter though?"

"They don't think I'm too old, do they?" he asked, looking away from me.

I had no idea what he was talking about, "Too old for what?" I spat- for some reason, I was getting very annoyed.

"Too old to like you."

He looked back at me, and I stopped breathing. He liked me! He actually liked me, and that fact made my heart stutter and speed up. I had put so much effort into making him like me, for the time he had actually spent with us in the river and in the woods, and it had all worked out. I wasn't ugly, I wasn't stupid- He appreciated me like I felt he ought to, and I was so pleased.

Looking at him behind lowered lashes, I said, "What does it matter if my parents like you? All that matters is if _I_ like you." I was smiling coyly then.

"Do you like me, Rosalie?" he asked, and I could see he was nervous.

I hesitated for a moment, and I watched as his eyes gave him away. He would have been devastated if I had told him I didn't like him. He was wearing his heart on his sleeve, and I felt triumphant. I had been victorious. He liked me, and he was the one wondering now. But I didn't want to hurt him, so I told him the truth.

Smiling shyly, I said, "I do like you, Warren."

He smiled then, and leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. It made my heart thump and my blood churn at a wonderful speed. It was only a kiss on the cheek, but I was only twelve, so it was everything to me. I smiled at him when he pulled away, and he smiled right back.

"You're beautiful," he said.

And I knew I was, but I relished the confirmation.

We walked back up to the house holding hands, and then quickly ceased contact once we got inside.

* * *

Mr. Goodchild took Vera, Warren, and I to see a movie when we returned to Rochester. I can't remember what movie it was, but I do remember that I wore a nice dress for it, and that I carefully did my hair. I also recall that once we were in the dark of the movie theater, Warren and I held hands.

The next day, when Vera and I were sitting my room, she demanded to know what was going on between her cousin and I.

"Nothing," I had replied haughtily, sticking my chin out.

"Don't give me that Rosalie," she said, her hands on her hips. "I saw you two holding hands in the movie!"

I grew defiant then, "So what if we were?"

"You can't be in love with my cousin!" she all but shrieked.

I was anything but _in love_ with Warren.

"Would you be quiet! My parents will hear you!" I hissed, looking at the door, as if expecting my mother or father to barge into the room and send me to a convent.

She scoffed, "Good! I hope they do hear me-"

"Why can't I be in love with Warren?" I demanded. "Why do you have any say in it?"

"Because he's my _cousin_!" she said, as if tortured. "And he's _fifteen_!"

I shrugged, as if this was no big deal.

She shook her head, rolling her eyes, "Rosalie, he's going back to the city next week anyway."

"So?" I pretended that this fact didn't bother me in the least, but, really, I was gutted over it.

"You're impossible!" she huffed, and she stormed out of the room.

I didn't have another private rendezvous with Warren, the rest of the time he was in Rochester. He had only kissed me on the cheek that one time at Pleasant Green. For the rest of the time, we had only stared at each other dreamily, usually with Vera in our presence, disgusted. He left on a Monday, and he gave me a rose from the Goodchild's garden before his parents had even arrived to get him.

"I wanted to say good-bye to you alone," he had told me, as we whispered behind Father's tool shed. "I'll miss you."

I held the rose in my hands and smiled sadly at him, "You can visit again- and we'll write," I tried to seem nonchalant. "The city isn't all that far away."

"I'll see you, Rose," he kissed me on the cheek one last time, and then hurried back to the Goodchild's house.

Aside from one letter I received from Warren before school started, we didn't keep in touch. I asked Vera how he was in October, and she told me he had gotten a girlfriend in the city. I pretended that I didn't care, that I had gotten over him anyway, and that that was wonderful. After a week of internal moping and heartache, I decided that I was too good to care about a boy. I also managed to convince myself that he was ugly, and that I was better off anyway.

* * *

I returned home from school on October 30, 1929, with my Halloween costume in mind. Vera and I were going to be gypsies at Tommy's party, and we were thrilled with the costumes we had managed to create. I was excited to show up to Tommy's in my long skirts and jingly jewelry, with a scarf around my hair, kohl patterns drawn along my eyes.

When I got into the house though, Father was home, and he and Mother were sitting in the parlor, looking pensive and disturbed.

For a brief moment I worried that someone had died. Mother looked up at me and gave me a sad smile.

"Mother? Father?" I said tentatively, making my way into the room. "What's the matter?"

Mother managed a pleasant enough voice, saying, "It's nothing, Rose."

"But you both look so sad," I was growing anxious. Why couldn't they tell me?

Father spoke up, "We're not sad. We're worried."

"Why?"

"The Stock Market crashed yesterday," he said, without actually looking at me.

I didn't know what it meant, and I didn't know why it made them look so upset, worried and anxious. But I frowned anyway, because it sounded bad.

For us, it wouldn't matter as much, but for the rest of the world, it would be known as the start of the Great Depression.

* * *

**Author's Note:** There was some romance for little Rosalie. Not too much, I hope. I was keeping it rated G, since she was only twelve. Also hope everyone liked the idea of Pleasant Green, it's based on a real place and it's the best place in reality. Hope you liked the chapter! Next one is coming soon!


	6. Unknown Depression

**Author's Note:** My reviews are always so encouraging and I can't thank you all enough for reading this, and then taking the time to share your opinions on it as well. **Angeliss**, you never fail to provide me with a good, insightful review, and I especially appreciate that. When you told me that it was as if Rosalie was sharing this with you as a close friend, I was so greatly encouraged by it- I also understand how heartbreaking it can be, even when it's supposed to be happy, because of what happens later, and, strangely enough, I appreciate this as well. Thank you, everyone, for being so understanding with the way I'm unfolding Rosalie's life, because I'm so worried that I'm not doing her justice. Also, I hate to do it, but this story will **have to change ratings**. I started it out, thinking it would be T, but when I think about everything that's going to come later- well, things are going to have to get a little angsty and dark for a few chapters, so it'll have to be M, to be on the safe-side. I'll warn everyone prior to the really bad chapters, but otherwise it will remain pretty safe. Thanks for reading and sorry for the extremely long note! And now, chapter five!

* * *

**Chapter Five  
Unknown Depression  
November 23, 1929-February 10, 1930**

* * *

The Depression fell on the world like a thick, woolen blanket, blotting out the sun and suffocating its victims. Some countries were better off than others, but America suffered. Thousands of jobs were lost. Millions of people were hungry. Poverty had never reached such catastrophic levels. The world was in complete agony. And what could be done to ease such terrible circumstances? Who had the power to save so many people from unemployment and unhappiness, in a depression of such great proportions? It didn't seem likely- or even possible. And the world, as a collective person, wept, because nothing else could be done.

My family, however, was not affected by the Depression, in any way. We continued to sit pretty in middle-class Rochester, as if the countrywide tragedy was a myth. A few families on our street were forced to move because of lost jobs. I lost friends because their parents had invested in the unstable Stock Market, but somehow I disconnected this fact from the national depression.

Father still had his job, and our bank hadn't been affected by the Crash, or the aftermath. So, everything went on as usual for us. Everyday we went to school. Everyday we came home and did our homework and ate. The food we had in our house was generally the same. Cooky still worked for us. And I didn't once realize just how lucky I was for any of it.

In November of 1929, we all went into the city to visit Aunt Kate. She was younger than Father- her brother- and she traveled all over the world with her husband, Uncle Gard. When we went to visit her, it was because they were staying in the city, after having just arrived from Egypt. They were only going to be in America for a week, before they would jet off to South America to research the Mayans. Mother insisted that we pay them a visit, although Father strongly disagreed. He thought his sister was flighty and too modern, and he strongly disliked her southern-born husband, Beauregard. But, he agreed to go anyway, if only to seem polite, not because he actually cared about his sister and her travels.

When we were walking from the train station to the hotel, I noticed groups of homeless people, clumped together on certain streets, staring at us as we passed. We didn't have people living on the streets in our neighborhood in Rochester- even if we did, I was prevented from seeing them. So, as we walked past, I stared at them, with a sick fascination. It wasn't until Mother grabbed my arm and pulled me forward, that I stopped staring so blatantly.

"Don't stare, Rosalie," she hissed at me.

I averted my eyes from them, asking, "Why are they all on the streets?" The disgust crept into my voice before I could prevent it.

"Because they don't have anywhere to live," Father said, looking at the loitering groups disdainfully.

"Why not?" I wondered. "Haven't they got families?"

Father pulled on Stanley's sleeve so he wouldn't start walking toward the people begging for money, and he said, "They've got no jobs."

I thought of my father, working at the bank, bragging about the money we had, about the things he could buy for us. So, these people had no jobs- they couldn't buy themselves things. I made the connection that they couldn't even afford a roof, or food, and I frowned. Why had their lives ended up like this? I didn't understand it.

"Why don't they have jobs?" I inquired, peering at the homeless people surreptitiously. "Don't they want money?"

Father laughed, amused and disgusted by the people, "Of course they want money- but they're too lazy or too drunk to get the right jobs," he shook his head. "Remember this, kids: You can only become poor and desolate when you don't try- you can only bring it on yourself."

I didn't even think to question him or disagree.

* * *

"Rosalie, is it possible that you are even more beautiful since when I last saw you?"

As we entered Aunt Kate's suite, she swooped down on us, clutching Stan, Charles, and I to her as she gushed about how much we had grown and how good-looking we were.

Holding me at arm's length, she beamed as she shook her head in disbelief, "You're practically a grown woman."

"She's only thirteen," Father cut in gruffly.

This stung me. Yes, I was only thirteen- soon to be fourteen- but that wasn't exactly immature or childish. Besides, I acted like a young lady and I was mature and sophisticated. I thought that I deserved a little more credit from my father. At the time, I didn't realize that he was only saying that to contradict Aunt Kate in any way he could.

"Thirteen is most certainly grown," she said easily.

I was aware of the tension between my father and my aunt- though it wasn't direct- and it made everyone uncomfortable.

Uncle Gard cut in, sounding immediately uplifting with his goofy southern accent, "Why don't we all sit down- We've had some tea sent up for us."

So we all moved into the elegant suite and sat down on beautiful, stiff sofas and armchairs, drinking sweet tea out of fine-boned china. Stanley was being a nuisance, running around the suite, asking if he could use the 'telly-phone,' begging to jump on the plush bed, wanting to go on the balcony, asking to ride in the elevator again, anything that our parents said no to. Charles was acting a little pompous and tough at twelve, talking to Gard about football, as if he was a professional player. And I watched as Father, Mother, and Aunt Kate made conversation. Though I would have preferred to talk about clothes and beauty with my gorgeous and youthful aunt, the adults chose to talk about current events and Aunt Kate's travels across the globe- which were interesting, yes, but not what I wanted to talk about.

"Katharine," Father said sternly. "Do you really think it's wise to be doing so much traveling right now?"

Aunt Kate raised an eyebrow, "_Right now_? Why, because of the Crash?"

The way she treated the matter- as if it was no big deal- upset my father. Through nearly gritted teeth, he said, "Yes, because of the Crash."

"It hasn't affected us in any way, George," she replied with laughing eyes. "Besides, our work on the Mayans will be _making_ us money."

"Mother, may I go on the balcony? You can see across the whole city!" Stan pulled on Mother's arm.

Our mother shushed him, continuing to eye Father and Aunt Kate.

Father said, "The Mayans?" Scoffing, he went on, "Kate, why don't you waste your time on something other than digging for Indian remains."

"There's a little more to it than that," Aunt Kate laughed.

"Of course- you collect bones too."

The tension in the conversation was mounting, and we all could sense it. Everyone except Stan. My little brother continued to pester our mother, until she couldn't stand it anymore. As a way of getting me away from the possibly angry argument that could erupt, Mother asked me to take Stanley out onto the balcony with Charles. Aunt Kate, however, said she would go out with us too, so there was no chance of an argument inside- and nothing for us really having to get away from. Regardless, we shrugged into our coats and stepped outside onto the balcony.

From where we stood we could see a good expanse of city skyline, though the November air was chilly and sharp around us. Charles and Stan leaned against the railing, peering over the bars and talking about the drop to the street below, and about how high up we were. Aunt Kate told them to step away from the railing, and they did, choosing to spit through the bars instead, laughing as they imagined hitting people below. Because Aunt Kate was so good-humored, she laughed at them as they did it, and didn't reprimand them in any way. As they continued their little contest, Aunt Kate sat down with me at a little patio table on the balcony, and we looked over the city together.

"Hmmmmm," she said contentedly. "Isn't it all beautiful?"

The way the buildings and rooftops laid against my vision was beautiful and I agreed.

We sat in silence for a moment more.

Then, I asked, "Aunt Kate, why don't you live in the city if you love it so much?"

"Oh Rose," she sighed happily. "The city is certainly beautiful- and I love being here- but there's so much more to the world! I've seen the pyramids of Giza and the Colosseum in Italy! They're all so beautiful too- in a way that the city can't be- and I want to see more."

I digested this.

She leaned forward and I looked at her, appreciating her delicate features, her dark golden hair, pinned up fashionably, "Don't resign yourself to New York- Rochester or the city- just because people tell you to."

By people, she meant my father.

"I'd love to see the world," I said passionately, and I did. "But I don't see how it's possible."

She nodded with a smile, "When you're a little older, you'll be able to do whatever you want."

I liked that idea. I considered this as the boys dragged Aunt Kate away from the table and made her spit over the ledge too. Because she was so free and careless, she did it, laughing and competing with them, as if she wasn't a grown woman. Would it be possible for me to see Giza and Paris, Rome and Mexico, like my aunt did? When I really thought about my future, I saw a husband and a beautiful house, adorable children, me staying in Rochester to fulfill all of these fantasies. How could I possibly live a charmed life such as that, and see the world as well? It simply wasn't done. And it was a nice sentiment, to think about all the faraway places my aunt had the liberty of visiting and experiencing in person, but I knew that wasn't my life. That's not how Rosalie Hale was going to live. I had a very clear idea of what I wanted in my mind, and traveling and experiencing didn't fit in there all that well.

* * *

"Roses, definitely."

I shook my head as Corinne gently thumbed through my hair, trying to braid it or arrange it in a bun, or something. I looked across my room, to Vera, saying, "People always have roses- and that won't do unless they're yellow or pink. You can't have red roses at a wedding."

Vera rolled her eyes as she tucked her legs under her on my armchair, "Why not?"

From where Corinne and I sat on the bed, I shrugged, "Red is too dark and- it looks like blood," I gave a little convulsion.

"You're absurd," Vera laughed. "Though, yellow roses would be nice."

"What will you have then, Rosalie?" Corinne prompted, as she pulled a comb through my hair to separate different pieces. "When you get married."

I thought about this for a moment.

For myself, I imagined a hugely extravagant wedding. I could imagine tons of beautiful, soft pink flowers everywhere. Petals of silken blossoms scattered along the aisle. I would have a thick bouquet of sweet, white and pink roses, maybe. I would have flowers in my hair and the whole place would smell of spring and freshness. My father would walk me down the aisle, and gaze at me, proud and misty-eyed, he would kiss my cheek when he gave me away and gently secure the flowers in my hair. All of Rochester would be there, sighing and crying at the beauty and romance of it all, admiring me in my lacy white dress, in all my bridal glory. It made me smile.

For a moment, I thought back to Warren, and how I had felt around him- light and giddy, but also very insecure. I almost frowned, but I quickly masked it.

"Definitely pink."

"Pink is too girlie," Vera immediately said, getting up and walking over to us. "A wedding can't be just for the bride!"

The girl loved to passionately contradict me whenever I first disagreed with her. I rolled my eyes.

Vera examined Corinne's work on my hair, "Are you even doing anything? You've been playing with her hair for twenty minutes!"

"It's just so soft and shiny though!" Corinne laughed, but I heard the jealousy in her voice. "Rosalie, what do you do to get it like this?"

I shrugged, answering honestly, "Nothing."

Corinne sighed, "I'd kill for hair like this."

"I'll kill you if you don't do something with it already!" Vera urged. "I don't want to sit in this house all day. The boys are going to be at Lacey's for hot chocolate and I want to go!"

"All right!" Corinne shushed her. "I'll do something with it."

I reminded her, "Nothing too crazy, Corinne."

"Me? Crazy?" she laughed. "Wouldn't dream of it."

We laughed over this, and then Vera sat down on the bed as well, lounging against my pillows, sucking on the ends of her hair. I swatted at her hand to stop her, and she pulled the strands out of her mouth.

Absently I asked, "Vera, why do you even want to go to Lacey's? You've hated her ever since she beat you in that silly spelling bee in third grade," I smirked at her, amused.

She gave me a sarcastic look, as if to say 'you're just _so_ hilarious for bringing that up.'

"It'll be fun- everyone's going to be there," she shrugged, but I could tell there was another reason for her wanting to go.

I just nodded suspiciously.

After a moment or two of more silence, Vera didn't look at anyone as she asked, "What do you two think of Patrick Weissman?"

I scrunched my face up for a minute, then relaxed and asked, "Patrick? The one who's father is a carpenter?"

Vera nodded with hesitation, as if she was afraid of Corinne and me.

"What about him?" Corinne prompted, still working on my hair.

"Do you think he's handsome? Or agreeable?"

I sat up a little straighter, Vera was blushing! And Vera did not blush! It immediately clicked in my mind that she liked him. So, carefully, I thought about what to say, and how to handle this.

Shrugging, I said, "He's nice-looking. But, agreeable for what?"

"Sawing a piece of wood?" Corinne offered, snorting with laughter.

I elbowed her while Vera looked at her hands sheepishly.

Looking up- but not at us- she said, "I don't know. I thought he was just nice and-"

"Do you like him?" I asked, trying to be gentle, but coming out slightly accusatory.

She finally met my eyes, and her pale face blushed deeper, "Maybe."

Corinne was about to laugh, but my elbow jutted close to her and she stopped. Instead, she busied herself with my hair and didn't say anything. Vera began to pick at her nails, a disgusting habit- along with the hair-sucking- that I often wished she would drop. She was waiting for our verdict, one that could make or break her decision to go for this boy or to forget about him, just because her friends approved or not. Well, I didn't care what Corinne thought, and I decided that Vera shouldn't either. If she had a fancy for Patrick Weissman what would be the damage in her pursuing that? We were only fourteen, and I knew that it could only result in them holding hands, sitting together when in groups, ice-skating together, and the like. It wouldn't be as if they were getting engaged. So, because Vera was my closest and dearest friend, I supported her.

"I think he's sweet," I said with definition, noticing Corinne make a sort of questioning noise of surprise behind me. "Shall I find out if he likes you too?"

Vera's eye lit up, but she said, "Oh no, Rosalie, don't!"

"Why not?" I teased. "I want to help plan the wedding!"

"Can you find out?" she asked bashfully. "Just don't be obvious about it!"

I gave her a reproving look, "Vera, darling, have I ever been anything other than subtle?"

She gave me a dubious look and we laughed.

Later that day I cornered the dark-haired Patrick at Lacey's. I managed to be subtle, but manipulative, and I found out that he did, indeed, like Vera as well. He showed no interest in me, which, I'll admit, I wasn't used to and didn't like, but that I was grateful for for Vera's sake. I hinted that Vera liked him too, and he took the hint as it was intended. And that very same day they were sitting beside each other at Lacey's house, as everyone talked and joked and had fun. Vera looked at me, and gave me a hidden smile from across the room, I winked at her and tried not to laugh, as I often had trouble doing when it came to Vera.

Granted, I was usually a reserved and cold person. That was just my personality. But when it came to Vera- a friend who didn't mind that I could be a stubborn wench and get extremely vain and competitive- I found that I was easily opened up. I had no problem laughing with her and having fun. I also had no problem when it came to being selfless with all things Vera, because she was just the same way with me. Yes, we were always competitive, but more importantly, we were a team when it really counted.

Maybe it sounds heartless and cruel, but had I known how things would eventually turn out with Patrick, I probably would have hesitated in helping them get together. Truthfully, at fourteen, I thought they would 'court' as all fourteen year olds did- a pathetic excuse for love. I never dreamed that Patrick would turn into anything but a little crush. It wasn't jealousy that would have made me reconsider helping them, it would have been something like fear for Vera. Patrick wasn't the status I thought Vera was worthy of, no matter what she felt. And maybe it's wrong to think that way, but that was how I was raised.

Heartless considerations or not, they were together and it had been partly because of me.

* * *

**Author's Note:** On youtube I have commentary videos for my stories, would anyone be interested in watching 'Heartless' video commentaries? Let me know, reviewing is always appreciated!


	7. In those Golden Days

**Author's Note:** So, for this new character that you will be introduced to in this chapter, please picture James McAvoy, because that's how I'm seeing him, and I had to get that across somehow. Also, **Angeliss**, you really outdid yourself for the last chapter, review-wise. I am a little amazed. Thank you so much for your support- and thanks for the little correction help with this chapter! You seem to understand the story in a way that I was only dreaming everyone would understand it. Thank you! Also, everyone, this one's kind of a lengthy chapter, I hope nobody minds.

**P.S.** I promise, the Cullens and the Kings will make an appearance within the next few chapters.

* * *

**Chapter Six  
In those Golden Days  
April 2, 1930-December 24, 1930**

* * *

By April, Vera and Patrick were still involved. I didn't think much of it. It was just part of everyday life for Patrick to go almost everywhere Vera went, and vice versa. When all of us hung out- all of the kids in the neighborhood- Vera and Patrick were more often than not, holding hands and standing close. They weren't obnoxious about it. They didn't stare at each other with ridiculous looks on their faces, they were just together. So, I didn't mind Patrick's father being a carpenter, because he was so happy with Vera, and she was so happy with him.

Because Vera and Patrick were so close, both Patrick's best friend, Will, and I felt neglected. Though we never came right out and said anything to that effect, it was most definitely true. Often, we would exchange looks of sympathy and annoyance as our friends ditched us to frolick or kiss and giggle behind a tree. We became somewhat accustomed to it- being left to fend for ourselves. We developed a sort of ritual. As soon as Patrick and Vera left us, we would look at one another, share a look full of sympathetic pity and relatable intoleration, and then we would move to involve ourselves with other friends around us.

In the beginning of April, our group was passing a Saturday evening at Timothy's house. We were playing cards and checkers and such, and some of us were just sitting around, talking and joking and having fun.

Though, almost miraculously, Vera was sitting with me, she was staring at Patrick from across the coffee table, and I could tell she would have rather been sitting beside him. Will seemed to notice this too, and he rolled his eyes.

"Just go sit with him, Vera," I said impatiently.

She turned to me, putting her hands on my arm, "You don't mind, Rose, do you?"

"Of course not," I shrugged, and she couldn't hear the sarcasm and grudging intolerance in my voice.

I wasn't one to enjoy sharing someone's attention- I suppose I had an all or nothing mentality.

She all but bounced off the couch, and plopped herself down beside Patrick, who promptly ignored Will. From across the way, where I sat on a loveseat, I noticed how furiously Will rolled his eyes, and how he shook his head and stood up, walking around the coffee table. For the first time since our ritual of sharing impatient glances and having complete sympathy for one another, Will came over and actually sat down beside me. I realized then that I had never actually spoken more than a few words to Will, and had never thought of him as an actual person. Hitherto, he had been just a name and character- Will, Vera's Patrick's best friend- but now he was a real person, who was sitting right beside me.

"You think they'd get sick of each other or _something_," he leaned in and said quietly, his lips pulled up into a smile.

I looked at Vera and Patrick, faces close, smiling, talking low, and I shook my head. "Not with those two," I said, allowing myself an amused smile.

Will stared at me for a moment longer than he had previously, as if taking in my features. And even though I hadn't ever thought of Will in any certain _way_, I preened under his eyes, just as I did with everyone who looked at me to _see_ me. I knew my hair was soft and golden, half of it pinned back, allowing the contours of my face to be completely viewable in all their glory. And I knew that my skin was soft and creamy, and that Will probably wished he could touch it. I was perfectly aware of how I looked- how he perceived me- and I very much glowed under his gaze. With a look that questioned him, but coyly- because Will was rather good-looking too- I tilted my chin down, giving him a narrowed strike of the eyes.

"What?" I prompted him good-naturedly.

He shook his head, and then looked away with a smile. Glancing at the others, some of which were playing an almost violent game of War with the playing-cards, he asked, "Not a fan of playing cards?"

I wrinkled my nose delicately, because I knew it made everyone's heart melt when I scrunched up my face slightly, and I said, "Perhaps I bore too easily."

Will laughed, and I got a chance to look at him without him looking back at me. He had short, tossled brown hair, slightly large ears- though they were endearing- clear blue eyes, and soft-looking lips. Something about him was so adorable, but rousing as well. But I wondered if I could like him, as we sat on that loveseat- because he was tall and a little skinny, and he never took anything seriously. I liked him though, for some unfathomable reason- and I knew it within those first few minutes of our interaction.

"What do you find amusing then, Miss Rosalie?" he asked, fixing me with those blue eyes.

Smirking a little, I replied with, "Theater, ballet, dancing, music, the classics." Perhaps I was pushing my tongue out a little when it came to my interests, but I suppose I wanted to be perceived a certain way.

"Oh," Will said, leaning back a little, as if realizing something. "_You're a snob!_"

My mouth dropped open, but I was laughing. "Don't be rude," I warned him teasingly.

He smiled, putting his hands up, as if surrendering, "All right, then, touch." Then he put his hands down and looked around the room. Leaning closer toward me, he softly said, "What about walking, does that bore you?"

"That depends on who I'm walking with," I said, looking at him through heavy lids, flirting without inhibition.

He knew my game, and he liked it, "What if you were walking with me?"

"I think I could tolerate that," I replied with a pretend sigh, and we both rose off of the loveseat, slipping outside unnoticed.

We walked up and down the surrounding streets, under the purple-navy sky. It was only the beginning of April though, and I was shivering the moment we stepped outside. Though I hadn't brought a jacket to Timothy's, because it had been warmer earlier in the day, Will had one, and he promptly draped it over my shoulders, even though I protested demurely. The smell of soap, and light cigarette smoke, wafted from the jacket, and I breathed it in deeply, trying to be discreet.

"So, what are we going to do with Vera and Patrick?" he asked jokingly, with his hands in his pockets.

I shook my head, "Goodness knows. Those two are probably going to get married."

"Don't say that," Will feigned that he was in pain. "I'll never have my best friend again!"

I laughed, "You're not the only one who's suffering."

He gave me a sidelong glance, continuing to smile, and then he said, "Perhaps we ought to give them a taste of their own medicine."

Looking at him straight on, I gave him a mock-suspicious look, "What do you mean?"

"Leave them, before they can leave us," he said. "The next time we're all out somewhere, you and I should walk off and have fun without them. They won't know what to think."

I laughed out loud as I thought of the expressions on Patrick and Vera's faces- how they would react if they got ditched by Will and I.

He nodded, "You see! It's genius."

"Maybe we _should_ show them what it's like."

He smiled at me, as if he was purely enjoying my presence. And I couldn't help but feel my stomach flutter, and my blood quicken.

* * *

After that day, Will and I did show Vera and Patrick what it was like to be neglected for someone else. They noticed- sure enough- but they absolutely loved the idea of us spending time together. Though Will and I often just disappeared to walk or to sit on our own, talking and laughing, the couple thought we were doing otherwise. I'll admit, it took only two days of walking with Will Hollinday to realize I liked him quite a bit. He was funny, and he could make me laugh about anything- but also, we could talk about serious things without feeling uncomfortable. A lot of joking though, was coated with an exterior of flirtation that didn't go unnoticed by either party. We sometimes made comments alluding to one liking the other, but it didn't go beyond that any time we walked or sat alone. Oftentimes, I wished Will would hold my hand or just kiss me- but I also dreaded that territory that was virtually unknown with a nervousness known only by those who have experienced it- but didn't attempt at anything other than friendship.

Vera strongly thought otherwise.

"Don't tell me you two haven't held hands yet- at least!" she said, one afternoon, when we sat in my room, working on homework and gossiping.

I rolled my eyes as I rubbed my paper with the nub of my eraser, saying, "Vere, we're only friends."

"Rosalie," she said, as if I was being scolded. "You like him- I know you do."

I chose to deflect this question by pencilling some equations into my notebook.

"And I know he likes you," she continued enticingly.

This statement caught my attention, though I didn't look up. As if I wasn't convinced, I asked, "How do you know that?"

"Have you forgotten that Patrick is Will's best friend?" she teased.

I looked at her then, seeming suspicious and paranoid, asking, "Patrick told you that?"

"Yes, but you didn't hear that from me," she said, sitting back on her heels. I looked at the floor, chewing on this bit of information, when Vera shot up excitedly, "Oh Rosalie, you have to try to kiss him or hold his hand or something!"

Looking at her, as if she had gone insane, I shook my head, "Thank you but-"

"But, what?" she cut me off. "You like him and he likes you. What more is there to it?"

I sat up, saying, "In case _you_ have forgotten, I've never done anything of the sort before."

"What about-"

"And don't bring up Warren," I said, pointing at her warningly.

Ever since we got into high school she loved teasing me about my brief and adolescent romance with her cousin.

She smiled, pressing her lips together, because that had been precisely what she had intended on doing.

I went back to my homework.

Vera continued after a beat of silence, "But you've got to start somewhere anyway," she reasoned. "Why not with Will?"

She had a point there, but that didn't make the idea any less frightening. What if he kissed me, and I failed miserably at it somehow? What if he held my hand and I perspired within his grip and he was disgusted? What happened beyond kissing- I mean, I had my ideas, from Vera's silly escapades and various stories from friends, but what was _I_ willing to do? What did I truly want to do with Will, were we to consider ourselves 'together?' There were so many what ifs and questions running through my head, and- though I wouldn't admit it under threat of water-torture- I was scared of knowing a boy that way, scared of the way the bottom of my stomach fluttered and felt as if it was coated in some kind of flinty lead whenever I thought of touching Will in any way. Also, I was scared of these feelings I was having. This wasn't like Warren Goodchild. This was advanced and I wasn't sure if I was ready for it. It felt as if I had leapt from innocent adolescent romance, to the real, physical, emotional, and entirely new, love, without anything in between. I couldn't confess- even to my dearest friend, Vera- that I was terrified of what I would feel, or maybe what I wouldn't feel, if I were to start seeing Will in any way other than what we already knew. These fears and anxieties felt like too personal of a thing to share with anyone, so I kept them to myself.

"I don't know Vera," I said absently, as if I was growing tired of the conversation. "We'll see."

* * *

In mid-May, Vera had her fifteenth birthday party.

It was a semi-grand affair, and I had had to act as some kind of maid-of-honor during the whole ordeal. Really, it wasn't anything different than her other birthday parties, except she was stressing over it for no reason.

She had it in her backyard, after dark, under trees strung with white Christmas lights. There were white, wrought-iron tables set up around the yard, dressed with table-clothes, nice plates, and crystal glasses. Baskets of arranged flowers acted as center-pieces at each table, and balloons were tied here and there, swaying in the breeze. The food, perhaps, was nicer than any of her other parties. She had forced her parents to go to the city to buy all of the ingredients, and had made a particular request for very expensive ice cream and cake. So, on the day of the party, she was afloat with excitement and pride over how everything had turned out.

I greeted her guests with her as they arrived, dressed in my new spring dress, made of soft, floaty material, with designs of blue and white flowers all over it. Patrick and Will arrived together, and we said hello to them. They sat down at the designated table, and we told them we would join them as soon as all of the guests had arrived. When everyone was present, the eating and merry-making began, so Vera and I joined the boys at the table.

After cake and ice-cream, when everyone was sitting in clusters, playing games of Truth or Guess Who?, flirting and, generally, acting adolescent, Will and I still remained at our table, lounging across from one another.

He looked over at me, and I could see the paleness of his eyes, even in the dim lighting of the backyard, and with the smile of his that was so familiar to me now, he asked, "Walk?"

I nodded, we wordlessly rose to our feet, and slipped out of the backyard. We took our usual route down my street, walking side-by-side, casual and easy. But halfway down the adjoining street, after walking without speaking, Will took my hand in his. I looked at him, and he glanced over too, smiling that easy-going, relaxed smile. I smiled back, and I didn't say anything. He gave my hand a squeeze, and we continued walking. And I didn't worry about my hand sweating, or him finding me disgusting, I just enjoyed our hands, intertwined sweetly, and the familiarness of Will and the delicious way he made me feel.

And after a thoroughly enjoyable, and appropriately silent walk, Will and I returned to Vera's backyard. But, he stopped our progress right before the gate, in the pitch-black shadows of the house, where we couldn't be seen at all, and where we couldn't yet see anyone in the lively backyard. I stared up into his eyes, which I could clearly see, even in the darkness, and he looked down into mine. I was going to ask him what he was doing, stopping, but I knew the answer. This would be it. My first kiss. Sink or swim, right? And my heart was pounding so loudly I was afraid he could hear it, and I was also afraid it would fly out of my chest and into the night. But for all of my nervousness- because it wasn't the type of fear that you necessarily want to be rid of- I wanted this and I wasn't so anxious about it anymore.

"Rosalie," he whispered, and his voice and the words sent shivers down my spine. "You're beautiful."

And I knew it was true, but I loved hearing it- especially from someone I liked so much. I smiled slightly at him, as means of a response- because I don't think I was capable of words just then.

Swallowing dryly, I hoped my breath didn't reek of the sliver of cake I had eaten earlier.

As if the world was moving in slow motion, Will put his hand on my waist and pulled me closer- but not too close for my own comfort- and leaned in. It felt like decades (horrible metaphor, when I really think about it) before his lips finally met mine, but it happened. I felt the rush of blood and the warmth of his lips against mine, and I almost wanted to sigh, because the slight pressure of his mouth on mine was just so nice in its simplicity. I applied my own pressure, and I hoped I was doing it right, but I just did what I felt like doing, and that seemed to be enough. Will moved his hand from my waist to my neck, and I felt his fingers just touching the edge of my hairline, where all of my tresses were clipped back. And after a moment he pulled away, though he kept his hand on my neck.

Looking deeply at me, breathlessly, he smiled a little and said, "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," I whispered, and leaned in for another kiss.

* * *

My family adored Will, in a way that was almost unnatural- though, they didn't know we were sort of seeing each other and doing silly romantic things. To my parents, Will, Patrick, Vera, and I were all just a cute group of friends, and that was it.

Mr. Hollinday owned a bakery in Rochester, and he was wealthy enough for my parents to appreciate him and his son. Besides that though, my father loved Will right away (even just as my friend) because- even though he was a teenager- he was a gentlemen. He didn't kiss me on the lips or hold my hand in front of my parents, as if to spare them, and they appreciated this. He also helped Father whenever he worked on the car, or if he ever had to do yardwork, which was highly appreciated. The two could talk about cars for hours, and, because Will was well-versed in everything automobile, my father didn't feel as if he was spending so much time with just some teenager.

My mother was absolutely smitten with him. He complimented her on everything, from her cooking to her clothes, but he never overdid it. She thought he was adorable and perfect and amusing, and she always made sure he sat down at the table with her and had some tea and something to eat whenever he came over. He was effortlessly at ease with my parents, and I admired him for it, because they weren't exactly easy to win over.

Charles and Stanley, however, weren't so hard to befriend. Will was a boy, he talked to my brothers about boy things that I couldn't stand, he played football with them in the backyard, he went fishing with my father and my brothers sometimes on the weekends, and that was all it took for my younger brothers to idolize him.

And so Will was expected at birthday parties, and often on holidays. Days that had been reserved for family opened their doors for him. I felt as if everyone who mattered to me was there on the days that I thought they should be. Whether it was my birthday, or Thanksgiving, I saw my parents and my brothers, usually Vera, and, of course, Will. And it was so fufilling to have someone like him- someone who I felt so fondly for, in a way I had never felt for anyone else. If I had a bad day, I'd talk to Will. If I got into a fight with my parents or Vera, I'd talk to Will. If something wonderful had happened, I'd talk to Will. If I felt self-conscious and unsure about myself, I'd talk to Will. He never failed me, and- though I wouldn't tell him what was wrong most of the time- he picked up the pieces of my life whenever he needed to.

I was sure I was close to loving him.

Between May and December, Will and I had filled in all the gaps of our relationship. Friendship, physical attraction, admiration, familiarity- we met all of those requirements. We kissed but we never went farther than was appropriate, and Will never pushed me. I was still hesitant about the intensity of the things I was feelings- as if it all had jumped out at me from nowhere- so I was very cautious. But, first and foremost, Will was becoming one of my best friends. We had fun together and we talked, and things were comfortable and easy, so things like kissing and holding hands? they just came in second- a very close second- in the scheme of our relationship.

* * *

"William, my boy," Father said from across the living room, beaming. "You are a real piece of work, aren't you?"

Will grinned, "I knew you wanted one, sir."

My father looked down at his gift, a canvas hat with tassles and hooks on it, looking as if he had just been handed the most amusing and wonderful Christmas present ever.

"Rose, do you know what this is?" he asked me from where I sat beside Will.

I rose an eyebrow, "A very unflattering hat- You're not actually going to wear that, are you?"

He gave me a comically scolding look, saying, "It's a hat for when we go fishing!" he propped it on his head, and the brim almost covered his eyes. "Now I can look like a pro!"

I rolled my eyes and laughed.

"And now your gift, Mrs. Hale," Will said, handing my mother a neatly wrapped present.

She blushed, taking it demurely, "William, you darling, you really shouldn't have."

He smiled sheepishly, urging her to open it.

Pulling back the paper with calculated fingers, my mother looked as if she was expecting a snake to jump at her from under the wrapping. Lifting the lid of the box under the paper, she peeked inside and gasped. From within the packaging, she pulled a shimmering porcelain figurine of a lady, wrapped in sheaths of glass skirt and cloak. It was elegant and sweet, and my mother's eyes shone as she looked at it. No doubt she was calculating how much it could have cost, and was weighing Will's worth in dollars.

"Willy," she whispered, turning it over in her hands. "You angel."

"My mother loves those figurines- She always goes to this one shop in the city to buy them. I saw that one and it reminded me of you, Mrs. Hale, so I had to buy it," he told her, and I was shocked to see her eyes sparkling with- I wasn't entirely sure- tears.

Mother stood, dropping the box and the paper to the floor, and leaned across the coffee table. With the figure still in her hand, she grabbed Will's head and gave him a kiss on the cheek, hugging him slightly.

"You are a dear," she tweaked his ear and sat back down, gazing at her figurine as if she had given birth to it. "Really- This is exquisite."

Stanley was bouncing up and down now, "What about me? What's my present?"

Father scolded him, but Will laughed, he handed both Stanley and Charles an envelope each.

Tearing open the paper, the two read the slips of tickets they found in their enevelopes.

"In the spring, my father and I are going to Brown for opening day of baseball season," Will explained. "My father says you guys are welcome to come, and Mr. Hale, if you'd like to come, you're welcome too."

My father's eyes lit up as he took Charles's ticket, "Opening day? I haven't seen a baseball game since I was young."

The boys fretted over this for a few moments, and then Will produced another wrapped box. My present. He handed it to me, and a hush fell over the room. Like this was the piece de resistance. Smiling shyly, I slowly undid the bow of the little box, and placed it carefully beside me. Then I carefully pulled away the paper, and found a, long, thin box underneath. Opening the lid slowly, I gasped when I saw what was inside. Because nestled within the white silk lining of the box, was a simple and beautiful necklace. It was a chain of thin gold, and on the end was a delicate, quarter-sized rose of gold, with petals that were curved softly, looking more botannical than metal.

"Oh, Will," I managed to sigh.

"Do you like it?" he asked tentatively, smiling.

I stared at in wonder. "I love it!" I nearly shrieked, clutching it in my hand, putting my free arm around his neck, pulling him to me. I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, saying, "Quick! Help me put it on!"

Mother and Father laughed at my excitement. Charles and Stanley rolled their eyes. But I ignored them all, and I gathered my hair in my hands, pulling it all up so Will could sucessfully slip the necklace around my neck and clasp it without my tresses getting in the way. When it was securely around my neck, I touched my fingers to the rose cautiously, my lips curving into a soft smile. I knew it was beautiful, and I knew people would admire it- and me wearing it- whenever they saw it.

Jumping up from the sofa, I ran to the mirror mounted on the wall in the front hall, admiring the way the rose fell just below my collarbones. I turned subtly, and the gold glinted, winking at me, and my smile grew.

From the hall I heard my parents joking with Will.

"Give that girl some gold, and you've got her for life," Father pretended like it bothered him, when he knew I got my avarice for material things from him.

Don't settle for anything that isn't better than what you could have, right Dad?

Mother pretended to scold my father, "She likes pretty things. That only makes sense."

"_Expensive_, pretty things," Father joked, and he and Will laughed.

As if he didn't always want a more impressive suit, or a gold pen to show off what he was capable of buying. My greed was not just my own. Want for pretty things, expensive material things, branched from both of my parents. They spoiled me, and they displayed their want for bigger, better, flashier, costlier. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and they let this apple spoil rotten with the pretty dresses they bought me- with the hair appointments, pretty shoes, jewelry, all of it. They knew I was beautiful- they knew I was an asset for social-climbing and monetary gaining- so I was the pampered favorite.

But I didn't think of it then, I just enjoyed the way the gold reflected the light and brought out the different tones of blonde in my hair.

* * *


	8. Harsh Realities

**Author's Note:** If anyone has any serious objections to this chapter, please let me know! I'm not too sure about it, and if everyone hates it and thinks it's way off, I'll be willing to rewrite it! Just, give me a legitimate reason in a review. Unless you like it, then... Ignore this. Haha.

* * *

**Chapter Seven  
Harsh Realities  
January 14, 1931-June 30, 1931**

* * *

I wore that necklace quite a bit- everyday for a little more than two weeks- after I got it. But then, I realized that it looked like I was too proud of it, and I stopped wearing it every single day. I suppose I believed I shouldn't have shown how much it meant to me- to reveal that kind of feeling to everyone who saw me wearing it. Could they tell that it meant more to me than just a pretty piece of jewelry? Didn't they know I had been raised to measure someone's love for you in material things- so I was enamored by the idea of Will buying me something that I thought must have expressed how much he truly cared for me? But I was sure people only saw it for what it was- a pretty necklace that was beautiful on me- so I stopped wearing it too often. Wearing gold given to you by your boyfriend was something I wanted to seem blasse about, so I only wore it a day or two out of the week.

By the second week of January though, Will noticed, and he took it in a bad way.

"Where's your necklace?" he asked, as we walked together toward the nearby park to go ice-skating with everyone else.

I tried to seem like it wasn't a big deal, when I was really always conscious of the absence of my necklace, saying, "I didn't feel like wearing it today."

Maybe I wasn't thinking clearly- or, at all really- but that had been such an ignorant thing to say. Looking back on it, I shouldn't have said something that would so obviously hurt his feelings.

"Oh," he replied, sounding kind of annoyed, his grip on my hand loosening. "Because I've just noticed that you haven't been wearing it all that much lately."

Even when he said this, I didn't think about his feelings. Was that heartless of me? Obviously careless, yes. Heartless? I don't think so. I was only fifteen, and some part of me was blocking my brain from thinking about how Will might be taking it. I must have convinced myself that he wouldn't be upset by it- that boys didn't care about jewelry and whether you wore it or not. But I didn't take into consideration the fact that he had paid his own hard-earned money on that necklace, because he knew it would mean a lot to me, and that I would like it. And by me saying, 'I didn't feel like wearing it today' and my not having worn it for several days here and there, made Will wonder if, maybe I didn't really like it or care about what he had done for me in getting it.

I shrugged, "I hadn't thought much about it really."

Trying to seem nonchalant and blasse.

Now, as I had perceived over the course of the eight-some-odd months that I had known him, I knew that Will wasn't one to be hurt. If you offended him in any way, or took a hit at him personally, he didn't get sad and mope and cry. He didn't play games- he didn't get quiet and deal out the 'poor me' card. No, when Will was angry or upset, you knew. He either told you, or you saw him getting angry. And that day, when I acted so uncaring about that necklace- he didn't get sad and try to get me to fish for a reason why he was upset. He got angry, because he had spent money on that necklace, and he had been so sure I would like it.

"You like it, don't you?" he asked, as if daring me to say otherwise.

I looked away from him, at the bright snow lining the streets, "Of course! I absolutely love it!"

He didn't say anything in return.

His hand was loosening, letting go of mine in degrees.

"What's wrong?" I asked, because I was so naive and self-absorbed that I hardly realized his demeanor had changed.

He shook his head, "I just don't understand why you haven't worn it if you love it."

"I just don't want to wear it everyday," I said, trying to be a little more careful with what I was saying. "I wish I could but-"

"Why can't you?" he asked, confused and inquisitive now.

I swallowed, telling him a half-truth, "I don't want people to think I wear it just because it makes me look pretty."

He looked at me sharply, as if trying to gauge what the hell was wrong with me. I shivered in the January afternoon, feeling uneasy and disquieted. Somewhere, my brain was telling me that I wasn't saying the right things- that I had made a mistake. The look in Will's eyes betrayed his hurt, but he converted it straight to anger. He thought I didn't appreciate his gift- that I cared more about everyone around me and the way they perceived me, than the money and time and thought he had spent on that necklace.

And wasn't he right, after all? I hate to admit it, but he was completely right.

"Why do you care what everyone else thinks?" he asked. "Why don't you just do what you want?"

I shrugged, wanting to be out of this conversation, "I don't know. I just don't want people to think I need it to make me look pretty."

It sounded so pathetic when I heard myself saying it, and I almost winced at my own stupidity and vanity.

"Rosalie, you should wear it or not wear it because you want to- but not because of what other people will think," he said, letting got of my hand to put his in his pockets.

I felt stung by this disconnection, and that he was reprimanding me for caring so much about what everyone else thought

Shaking my head, I said, "What does it matter what I want? I can deal with it, but I don't want people to think-"

"Are you always going to sacrifice your own happiness for everyone else?" he all but demanded.

I stared at him, because I was just shocked by all of this, saying, "Just because I don't wear the necklace because of what other people think, doesn't mean I'm sacrificing any great happiness, Will."

My foot couldn't have gotten farther in my mouth unless I had shoved it in there physically.

"That's fine, Rosalie, whatever- But today it's wearing a necklace, and tomorrow it's who you marry, and what you do with your life," he said, speaking words that were vastly mature for a fifteen year old boy. Which is probably why I stared at him as if he was insane. That, and the fact that he was talking about all of these things, as if they were bad qualities- to care about appearances in every aspect of your life. Back then, I thought that what other people saw and knew was all that mattered.

Defending myself, I said, "You don't know what I'll do with my life- and you certainly don't need to concern yourself so much that you get upset over what _I_ do. It's my own business, and you don't need to think otherwise."

We were drawing up to the park then, and we could see our friends- not far off- standing around a bonfire, laughing and joking, or flying around the icy pond on skates.

"That's fine, Rosalie," he said hotly. "I just won't concern myself with you from now, okay? Because it's none of my business."

Perhaps the boy was tempermental, or perhaps I had just been too quick to bristle and offer a counterattack- at any rate, it was our first real fight and I was so angry and upset about it that I couldn't comprehend what was happening as he stormed forward to our friends, leaving me behind. As soon as I reached our group, I extracted Vera from Patrick, ignoring everyone as they looked at Will and I questioningly. Vera and I walked around the pond and I explained the fight. She sympathized for me, but she defended Will too. In the end- after a decent reprimanding and pep talk from my best friend- she told me that things would patch themselves up in no time, and that he didn't hate me because of one fight.

I didn't believe her.

Vera- despite what I had predicted- had been right about the fight between Will and I. The following day, he had apologized, as did I, and we were back to our usual goings on. But, his words wouldn't leave me. Not so much that I was plagued by them- not then at least- but enough that I sometimes wondered if he was right. Should I just forget about everyone else and focus on my own, selfish happiness? But my happiness _was_ having other people being jealous of me, admiring me, etc. I couldn't explain that to Will though. I wasn't sure he would understand.

* * *

On the night of June 27, 1931, I woke up to the sound of rocks on my window. I was disoriented and confused at first, but once I realized what the sharp, tapping noise was, I got out of bed and hurried to the window. I expected to see Will, surprising me with a little nighttime visit or something- he had never done this before, but I was a bit of a hopeless romantic at fifteen, so I hoped- but, instead, I saw Vera. She peered up at the window, hugging herself, her pale face shining, ghostlike, in the chunk of moonlight washing over her. Even from my window I could see that she looked disraught, so I threw open the pane quickly.

"Vera?" I hissed. "What are you doing here?"

She looked around, "I'm sorry it's so late, but I need to talk to you!" her voice was clotted with sobs, I could see tears shining on her face, and I knew I couldn't bother with worrying about what time it was.

"Don't move!" I whispered loudly. "I'll be right down!"

I scrambled into my robe and flew out of my room and down the stairs quickly. If Vera was waking me up in the middle of the night, crying without inhibition, then I couldn't waste any time with being properly dressed or careful. Luckily, my parents were already in bed, so I hurried out of the front door, without even putting shoes on or being quiet.

Vera stood, shaking violently, by the fat oak tree in my front yard, dressed in a nightgown, her mother's enormous, horseback-riding sweater, and her father's boots. As I got closer to her, I could see her body being racked with sobs, as she whimpered, trying to be quiet, trying to seem controlled. Her hair was tied back, but it was wild and frizzy, and she looked a complete mess. And even as I was a dozen feet or so away from her, I could feel the anguish radiating from her body.

When I reached her, she threw herself at me, clinging to me with shaking arms, as if I was a life-preserver.

"Vera," I pried her off of me, forcing her to look me in the eye. "What happened? What is it?" I had never seen her so upset, and it was scaring me.

She shook her head, as if she couldn't bear to say it out loud.

Staring her in the eye with a determination and furiousness, I demanded, "Tell me what happened, Vere."

"Warren," she managed to say.

My heart thudded in my chest, and I paused before whispering, "Warren? Your cousin, Warren?"

She nodded, pressing her lips tightly together, a sob escaping from her nose.

"What happened to Warren?"

I thought of the boy I hadn't seen since my family had gone to Pleasant Green. Vera often talked about how he still went with them- even when his parents weren't travelling around Europe- and how they were good friends now. I was often jealous of the relationship she had with her cousin. She told me stories of how they joked around, had fun, and could talk about life and everything, and it was always so nice. But I didn't have any cousins, and I didn't have that kind of relationship with my brothers, so I could only simmer in my jealousy. Though, I couldn't comprehend how she could be such good friends with Warren, because I still harbored some of my silly girlhood feelings of 'love' and adoration for him. Whenever I thought of him, I smiled, because- even though I had been so heart-broken when I discovered he had found another girlfriend- he was still the mysterious and pensive Warren from Pleasant Green, and he would always be the first boy who had ever kissed me.

The way Vera was acting though, made my stomach twist in a sick and fearful way.

"Vera," I said, a little louder, with solidity in my voice, shaking her just slightly. "Tell me."

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to gain some form of control over herself, and then, she managed to choke out, "He's dead!"

Every edge of my body stood on end in a strange, reactive way.

"What?" I whispered, horrified.

She nodded, her throat tightening visibly within her neck. Taking a startlingly sharp breath, she said, "He was killed in the city just a few hours ago."

My blood ran cold and hard in my veins.

Warren Goodchild? _My_ Warren from Pleasant Green?

"How?" I asked, hardly able to believe it, shaking my head in horror.

She swallowed, saying, "He was on his way home from a lecture at his school, and he got mugged by a gang," she shook her head and paused for a moment, collecting her barings. "He struggled against them and they stabbed him- Oh, Rosalie!" she clung to me again, but I could only freeze within her grasp.

Warren had been stabbed to death in the city- was it possible, or was I just having a nightmare?

"It's okay, Vera," I managed to say, wrapping my arms around her and lightly patting her back. "It'll be okay."

We sat by the tree for hours that night, in the cool darkness of early summer, mourning the loss of the same boy, in completely different ways. Vera sobbed, and her eyes gushed tears like never before. But I only sat there, trying my best to comfort her, feeling the shock and the hurt inside, but keeping it all to myself. And it wasn't until the sun was coming up, that I realized I was actually crying too.

* * *

"I'll be right back," I told Will, and turned, walking as quickly as my legs would take me.

Behind me, my mother called, "Rosalie?"

"I'll just be a minute!" I replied without looking back, and continued to walk.

My parents, Patrick, Will, and I had all joined the Goodchilds in New York City for Warren's funeral. My parents, and Vera's knew Vera, Patrick, Will, and I were all a close group of friends, and they allowed it. Though, it was mostly for moral support, it was much appreciated by Warren's parents- not to mention, me. I wouldn't admit it, but it had given me strength to be able to squeeze Will's hand throughout the wake, and to have his arm around me as the minister spoke of 'God taking a young man too soon.' And I managed to keep myself from crying in confusion, anger, and depression, because my parents didn't approve of such a blunt display of emotions. So, all in all, it was a good thing they were all there- for me, anyway.

I mounted a little hill, hurrying behind a grove of trees that skirted the grassy edge of the cliff.

Warren had been buried in a cemetary across the river from the city. It was on a ridge of mountains, under blue-blue skies and frothy clouds. His grave was at the foot of the hill, and I hurried away from it- away from all the headstones- and toward the cluster of trees. I hid behind them, just wanting my solitude and peace. And being able to look over the river, toward the skyline of New York City, helped me forget about where I was and why, for just a moment. Ultimately, being on the brim of a cliff- so high up above the rest of the world- made me feel as if I was closer to Heaven though, which made me wonder where Warren was at that moment.

A sob spasmed in my chest, and I covered my mouth.

Truthfully, I wasn't crying so much for me- because I wouldn't miss Warren when I never saw him to begin with- but I cried for the life he couldn't live, for everything that had been cut short too soon.

And, really, I cried for so many reasons.

Warren was the first person I knew to die, and it was the catalyst for a whole slew of emotions to crash into my mind. What happened after you died? Did you go to Heaven or Hell, like they told us in church? If so, was Warren in Heaven, looking down on all of us from some blissful place? And if Heaven did exist, would I go there when _I_ died? Or would Warren just sit in the ground, in the coffin he had been laid in? Would he become some kind of ghost, and float around his favorite places, around his favorite people, as if he was living among them still? I couldn't say, and it made me uneasy and worried- not knowing where I was headed after death, or what I could expect. And what if I died young? The thought had terrified me ever since I had learned of Warren's death. I couldn't think of anything more tragic or sickening. I didn't want to perish before I did everything I wanted to do- everything I should be able to do- in life! But, young or old, the very idea of death frightened me to my very core, and I just wished I'd never have to deal with it.

There was no way I could have known what I really was to expect for my future.

Behind the grove of trees, I took deep breaths, trying to ease my anxiety, to get my composure back.

"Rosalie?"

I turned and saw Will hesitantly approaching me through the trees.

He looked apologetic about interrupting my solitude, but he saw the true feelings on my face- the ones I couldn't mask because he had happened upon me so suddenly. I was upset and confused, and that vulnerability was all there for him to read. It was Will though, and the look he gave me was so understanding and sympathetic that I crumbled underneath it. I had never showed anyone- with the exception of Vera- any true emotions without my being okay with it first, but I allowed myself to break in front of Will. The same Will who had been baffled by my needing to go to Warren's funeral, but had agreed to come along anyway. The same Will who didn't- and would never- know about my previous connection to Warren- would never understand why this wasn't just 'Vera's cousin dying young'- that this hit a little too close to home for me.

He took me in his arms the moment I stepped toward him, and he smoothed down my hair as I sobbed and cried against him. Not once did he question me, or demand for me to give him a reason as to why I was so upset at the funeral of someone I, really, only knew a little bit, not once did he try to say something to make it seem okay, and not once did he let me go. All that mattered to me was that he held me tightly and let me cry. He also waited patiently for me to feel like I looked presentable enough to return to everyone else. And most important of all- to me- he didn't insist we talk at all, as he held my hand and led me back to the group.

But no matter who comforted me, or how, the damage was done, and I had been introduced to the very real truth of the end.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope that chapter wasn't too bipolar. (I made a few very minor corrections, thanks to the much-needed advice from Angeliss, and I hope it made the chapter flow a little more.) Everyone, let me know what you think- I can't tell you how much I appreciate the reviews!


	9. What Is Not Fair

**Author's Note:** Okay, so, either I did the math wrong, or Stephanie Meyer did, but there's no way Rosalie could have been eighteen in 1933. She would have been seventeen in April of 1933, and wouldn't turn eighteen until December of that year. So she would be marrying Royce at seventeen, and she technically became a vampire at seventeen as well. Is my math completely off? I know it's simple adding and subtracting, but numbers kind of make me want to weep. If anyone has any information on this, then PLEASE let me know what is up. If Stephanie Meyer was wrong, I'll continue on with the numbers being as they are (it really doesn't change anything), but if I'm wrong, I'll definitely need to fix it! Please let me know if anyone can fix the confusion!

**P.S.:** Sorry it took so long to update!

* * *

**Chapter Eight  
What Is Not Fair  
July 4, 1931-November 23, 1931**

* * *

The fourth of July wasn't so fun that summer. I was still in a sort of daze over the idea of death, and it put me into a strange depression the week or so following the funeral. Though Patrick and Will tried endlessly to make us join in the fun of carnival food, silly hats, parade songs, and fireworks, Vera and I were in no mood for it. We stood, silently, with our arms folded, watching the parade from the side of the road, wanting to be anywhere else. All around us people cheered and sang, confetti was being thrown overhead, music blared from the band in the gazebo in the park, and it was all too much for us. The volume and the intensity of it all- I just wanted somber colors and quiet tones. If I could have had my way, I would have stayed in bed, mulling over the idea of death and dying- of lives cut short and Warren, gone. But my parents couldn't know how this was affecting me- they would only tell me that I hadn't even known Warren, and that I was being dramatic- so I had dragged myself out of bed and into the fanfare of patriotism.

But, poor Vera- this boy had been a close friend, a cousin she had known her whole life- she couldn't even manage to speak that day. All she did was stand around or follow where Will and Patrick and I went, looking as if she was cold, huddled in on herself, her eyes shadowed and distant.

I had never seen my best friend like this, and it only deepened my own depression.

We made it through two or three minutes of the fireworks that night, before Vera finally broke down. Patrick and Will tried to comfort her and make her laugh, but I just stared. Was this really my best friend? Could this be Vera, the little pistol of a girl who had gotten thrown into a closet with me in grade school? It pained me to see her so broken like this, and I knew the boys weren't helping with their way of comfort. Ignoring the people sitting around on their blankets in the park, staring at us as if we were a spectacle, I stood up and forced Vera to her feet. She hardly paid me any notice, but rose.

"I'm going to take her home," I told them with finality.

"We'll come with you-"

"No," I cut Patrick short. "Vera's my best friend, and I know what she needs right now. Trust me."

The boys looked at me for a moment, then they looked at Vera, sobbing and shaking in my arms. They nodded.

Vera leaned against me as we walked out of the park, oblivious to the stares and comments we received from neighbors and friends. She worked really hard at maintaining herself, until we were on deserted streets, when she let herself sob and cry hysterically. I rubbed her shoulder with my arm around her, saying, over and over, that everything would get better and that it was all right. She managed to finally calm down as we made our way up the quiet streets of our neighborhood, under the deep shadow of the cloudless night sky. The warm summer air was heavy, scented with charcoal and flora, and it had a lulling affect on both of us. We leaned against one another, two best friends walking lazily toward home, distraught and upset, needing one another more than anything else.

Vera only broke the silence with sniffles, until she whispered, "We're not going to Pleasant Green this year."

I didn't say anything in response.

"I'm glad," she said bitterly. "I don't know how I can ever go back there without thinking of him."

I gave her shoulder a squeeze, softly saying, "The pain will ease eventually."

"I hope so," she choked down a sob. "Even the happy memories make me sad."

With a slow shrug, I said, "Just be thankful that you got to have those memories at all."

She nodded and fell silent.

After another long beat of silence, she said, "You know, he was going to set off a bunch of fireworks from the college rooftop," smiling shakily, the tears causing her lips to quake.

I managed to laugh at the idea of Warren's scheme.

"He would have gotten in trouble, of course," she said, laughing a tiny bit too. "But Warren was always so quiet and thoughtful that the teachers probably would have let him off easy."

"Of course they would have," I said, smiling at the idea of the dreamy boy setting off fireworks on a city college's rooftop.

A sob escaped her mouth, but she clamped her lips together, taking a deep breath, whispering harshly, "It's not fair."

That had been the mantra rolling around my mind for the past week.

"I try to keep telling myself that he would have been okay with dying- but-" she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. "He wasn't finished living! There was so much more he had to do, and he wasn't done!" she hissed with conviction.

Her words made my chest ache and I swallowed, saying, "I know, Vere. But he wouldn't want you to waste _your life_ now, just because he couldn't finish his."

She nodded silently again.

We were on our street when she spoke again, whispering, "I'm sorry I ruined your day, Rose."

I laughed a little, "Vere-dear, I don't know if you noticed or not- but my day wasn't so great to begin with." She smiled a little at this, and I continued, "Besides, it helps to talk about him a little, doesn't it?"

She let out a deep breath, smiling easily, but only for a moment, before she said, "You're right, it does."

We stopped in front of her house, and she hugged me tightly.

"Thank you, Rosalie."

"Don't thank me," I said in return, pulling away to give her a smile.

We went our separate ways, and, despite my comforting words for her, _I_ was still feeling heavy.

* * *

Things changed considerably in September, when school started again. Through July and August, I had managed to suppress the strange anxiety and depression Warren's death had had over my life. It was still more than losing him- because that really wasn't even the issue- it was the idea of dying young, of such a catastrophic tragedy happening to someone so close to my life. I mean, you heard about murders, and you heard about gang fights in the city, but those were just names and ages and places. You didn't read about your best friend's cousin's death in the newspaper. Nothing was supposed to hit that close to home, and yet, it had. So I was anxious and depressed- feeling strangely nervous and on-edge all the time. I created a way of coping for myself though. I feigned illnesses and forced myself to help my mother and Cooky. I made excuses so I didn't have to go out; I had to help watch my brothers, I had a headache, etc. And when I was inside, making myself busy with Cooky or Mother, I didn't think so much about death and dying. Yes, sometimes, I couldn't avoid going out with Will, Patrick, and Vera. They all had fun, and Vera was even recovering nicely, but I ended up being irritable and snappy. So, when I said I didn't want to go out, or couldn't, they didn't push it anymore.

In September though, I was thrown back into the world, flailing into life and school like a fish out of water. On the outside, I was the same Rosalie, but on the inside, I was gasping for breath.

I know I made myself think about the issue of premature death and murder more than I normally would. It's just- I became obsessed with it, and it was like a sadistic pleasure- making myself think of these horrors, bringing on the anxiety at will. I hated it, but also, I don't think I could have helped it if I had tried. And maybe, deep down, I clung to the deeply rooted fear of dying young, because I was so appalled by anyone being okay with it. But, it began to affect my life and relationships, and that, I can never get over.

Will and I were walking home from school one afternoon in early September, when another crack formed in the shell of our relationship- something that was becoming increasingly common for us. Vera was still at school, making up an assignment or something, and Patrick was there waiting for her. As we walked, Will tried to make conversation about his day, asking me questions about mine. That deep and ungiving anxiety was licking at my insides, and I was trying to think about my new fall wardrobe- trying to distract myself from those relentless thoughts, rather than face them head-on.

"Rosalie?"

I jumped a little, startled, "What?"

"I said, are you going to Mr. Carlton for help before your exam?" he asked, trying to make conversation.

I shrugged.

"Well, didn't you say you were having trouble?" he prompted.

"I am," I said shortly, just wanting to focus on the mental image of my closet.

He tried again, "So why don't you go for help-"

"I don't know, Will," I snapped, unable to focus on both things at once. I found safety and solidity within the idea of my wardrobe and my hair and my appearance- these things weren't dangerous- but he wanted to talk about the flexibility of life, and I couldn't deal with it at that moment.

"Are you okay?" he asked, peering at me sideways.

I didn't want to talk. All I wanted to do was mentally match my shoes with my dresses, so I said, "I'm fine."

"You don't seem-"

"Will, please," I nearly barked. "_I'm fine._"

We didn't talk for the rest of the walk home. He didn't come inside to visit my Mother and brothers- he didn't even walk me to my door. Stopping at the edge of the lawn, he kissed me coldly on the cheek and left.

I knew I deserved it- I hated it- but I couldn't help it either.

* * *

I shifted all of my attention and energy to my appearance. The way I looked was always something that had easily attracted and held my fancy, so it was simple to focus on that, instead of worries. However, over the month of August, when Will had stayed with his uncle for two weeks, he had been introduced to a transcendentalist way of life. Our new obsessions clashed, and everyone saw it. We fought more and more, and held longer grudges against one another. Sometimes a week would pass before we made up. He was sick of me snapping though- and then when my anxiety faded, he was sick of my lasting fascination for clothes and accessories- sick of the importance I placed on appearance and things. But I was sick of the lectures he gave me on being one with nature and learning to live without so many material objects. We argued that the other should stop intruding when it came to ways of life, but I suppose we were both hypocritical in that respect.

We didn't touch anymore, in any way. We hardly smiled anymore either- _never_ when it was just us. It all felt like it would pass though. I kept telling myself that this was Will- _my_ Will- and I would never lose him. I was sure that I was close to loving him, and the idea of losing him- even with all the fighting and disagreements- made my chest ache. I had lost Warren in too many ways to count. And though I hadn't invested as much emotion in Warren, I had still lost him- even the idea of him and the possibility of what we had- forever. Will.... I wasn't ready to lose Will. I had become so accustomed to him, so unappreciative and expectant of him, that I couldn't imagine a world without him. I no longer placed any importance on knowing he was there when I needed him, that he meant as much to me as Vera did, but in an entirely different way.

The fighting and coldness continued into November, but I ignored it for what it is.

I didn't want to confront the possibilities.

* * *

When I was little- as I've mentioned before- people always told my parents that I would be a heartbreaker. But, looking back on the romances- adolescent or otherwise- of my human life, I see that all of my relationships ended in _my_ heart being broken. Warren found another girl within a month or so of our Pleasant Green engagement (a crime that I had forgiven him for at his funeral), and Will told me that he didn't want me anymore. Both instances in which I _did_ think my heart was irrevocably broken.

It happened on November 23, 1931. Will called and asked if I wanted to go for a walk. I agreed quickly and with an immense amount of optimism. I really thought that he wanted to talk about all of our arguments, to tell me that he wanted to work at fixing everything. So, I made sure to pay particular attention to what I was wearing- bundling up for the November weather without looking dreary- and fixed my hair immaculately. And I was confident with the way I looked when I met him outside- and it made me feel as if I was wearing a protective suit of armor. When I met him at the edge of my lawn though, I beamed at him, but he gave me a grim smile before heading in the direction of our usual route, cracking my armor slightly.

We walked past the beautiful houses of middle class Rochester, past smoke-plumed chimneys and lace-curtained windows, silent and tense. It made me nervous that Will was quiet- that he wasn't jumping straight to an apology and a strategy for mending our relationship- and I shook subtly in the biting November air.

When he did speak, I almost jumped because I was so surprised.

"Rosalie," he said, peering up the road. "I asked you to come on this walk with me so we could talk."

I waited.

He didn't even glance at me as he sighed, saying, "It's not that- We've just...."

My heart began to thump in my chest as he tried to find the proper words in breaking it.

"Rosalie, I think it might be best if we stop seeing each other," he said, finally looking me in the eye.

It felt as if I had been slapped across the face after _waiting_ for it- I had been hoping it wouldn't happen, and it hurt even more when it did. Because of this, I wasn't capable of speech or movement. I stopped in my tracks and stared at him.

He stopped too, turning to face me, "You can't deny that it was bound to happen, Rose. All we do is fight-"

"Don't," was all I managed to say, my throat clenched. I wanted to say, 'Don't call me Rose,' but I couldn't get all of it out.

"I wish it wasn't this way," he implored. "You know how much I care about you, but- Rosalie, we just- We aren't the same people."

I wanted to spit at him and shout, 'Obviously!' but I gritted my teeth.

He looked tired as he said, "It's not fair for us to stay together like this."

I let out a dry laugh.

"Look, maybe- Maybe we should just take some time to-"

"No!" I barked a little, laughing as a form of defense. I found my voice- though it was cracked and weak- and said, "If you're going to end this, than do it properly- Don't give me halves and try to play it some other way."

_He doesn't like me. He doesn't want me. He doesn't like me. He doesn't want me._

I couldn't see how apologetic he looked- my ego was too bruised.

"Rosalie, I still want to be friends with you-"

I scoffed at him then, "No, I'm not the type of person you want me to be, Will, so it's over. You won't have to worry about me and the petty fights we might have in the future. Good-bye!" I shouted, letting myself go a little.

Before he could reply I stalked away and hurried toward home, feeling too hurt and angry to cry.

I was far too sensitive- and I took everything personally- but it just wasn't fair to me. Why did the boys always do the crushing, while I was left with the broken heart? It may have only been tragic to a fifteen year old, but it was so real to me that it made me ache inside. It still makes me ache sometimes- losing Will. He was a dear friend, regardless of the way our relationship manifested- and I cut myself away from him and his friendship after that, just because I was too selfish and sensitive. I mean, I think we _could_ have been such good friends if I had allowed it. Vera even told me I was being ridiculous, but I figured that was just because our group couldn't spend time together without it being awkward. So, we had deteriorated into Patrick and Vera, Will, and Rosalie. We were three pieces of a puzzle that couldn't fit together anymore. And I still feel like that was my fault- could I have changed anything by being less selfish? _Would_ I have changed anything if I could, when I think about things in the long run?

I still don't know.

* * *


	10. As Things Will End

* * *

**Chapter Nine  
As Things Will End  
December 15, 1931-March 2, 1932**

* * *

My sixteenth birthday was held at home, and it felt much more mature than any of my previous birthday parties. We were all dressed as if we were adults, and we didn't get rowdy and obnoxious. Though we did play games of Truth and Would You Rather?, there was something that just felt more grown up and reserved about it all- but in the most delicious and wonderful way- like we were little adults, acting out some of the fun of being grown up, and disregarding all the rest.

Vera stood beside me that night as I welcomed my guests into the house, being my maid of honor- as I had been hers so many times before.

"Rosalie," she whispered, leaning toward me discreetly. "Will and Patrick are here."

I was careful to restrain myself from whipping my head upward and searching out those familiar blue eyes. Instead, I made it seem accidental when I looked up and turned, catching sight of Patrick and Will- though they were handing their coats over to Cooky and weren't looking at me yet. My throat felt tight, and I swallowed harshly, hoping my face was hosting a sense of easiness and nonchalance I didn't feel. At all. The sight of Will alone- since the end of 'us'- made me quake with anger, and hurt, and a yearning I couldn't dismiss. I missed him so much- just knowing he was mine and that I had him if I needed him- but my pride was too wounded for me to admit that to myself at the time.

Vera whispered, "Do you want me to get rid of him? I can ask Patrick if-"

"Vera," I reprimanded her quietly, keeping my features light and happy. "I invited him."

And I had. Though I refused to be friends with him in any way, I _had_ invited him to my party.

"I know," she shrugged. "You might feel differently right now though."

I did. At that moment I wished with every fiber of my being that I hadn't invited him, that it was just Patrick walking through the door, alone. I asked myself why I had done something so stupid and careless, but I didn't know the answer. And a slick dread crawled up my back, making me shiver. I realized that I would have to endure this awkward rift between us, the underlying want for his companionship that I couldn't admit, and the anger I felt for him not wanting me anymore, all night. I was sure that my party was ruined.

To Vera though, I said, "It's fine."

A fraction of a second later, they were upon us.

Patrick said hello to me first, giving me a half-hug and an amiable kiss on the cheek, before kissing Vera hello and handing her my gift from him, which she put on the table behind her. Will and I locked eyes, and I felt every edge of my body go rigid. It was the strangest feeling in the world- not pleasurable, but _aware_. He gave me a small smile and said happy birthday. Stiffly I said thank you. He handed Vera my gift, and then before I knew it, the two boys were walking away, into the crowd and out of sight. That was when I realized I had been holding my breath a little.

"Have I told you that you're being ridiculous?" Vera turned on me.

I narrowed my eyes at her, indicating that I didn't want to hear this.

She shrugged as if she didn't care, saying, "You guys did fight all the time. Why can't you just be _friends_?"

I deflected her question all together and said hello to Corinne and Bobby as they approached us smiling.

* * *

"Rosalie," Vera hissed, so no one else could really notice. "Rosalie!"

I whipped my head towards her, ripping my gaze away from Will, quietly snapping, "What?"

"You're staring again!"

I narrowed my eyes at her and turned back to the game of Truth that we had all been a part of.

Tommy hollered, "All right! My turn!"

The tinkling of laughter and chatter decreased in volume as we all turned and looked at Tommy, waiting with bated breath to see who he would choose to tell the truth. Trying to be discreet- not even admitting it to myself- I looked up again and stared at Will. Sitting there between Joyce Crawford and Christopher Bright, he seemed like a foreign entity to me, and it made my chest ache. I felt as if I was watching a stranger- one that was absolutely fascinating to me. I felt as if I needed to study him, to take in every mannerism and trait I had lost track of before. He scratched his chin, and I watched his sleeve ride up his arm like it was a matter of life or death. He laughed at something someone had said and I swallowed dryly, wondering how he could be happy when I felt like this. I wasn't consciously staring though, I just couldn't help it. Vera, however, had caught on and was trying to help me. Beside me, she pinched my arm and I pulled my eyes away from him once more.

"Rosalie."

"What?" I looked at Tommy, wondering why he was saying my name.

A collective laugh spread throughout the room, as Tommy said, "You have to tell the truth."

I wanted to groan loudly. Why did I agree that we could play this stupid game?

"All right," I said, maintaining my cool and my sangfroid as I spoke. I knew everyone's eyes were on me now. "What am I telling the truth about?"

Tommy thought about this for a moment.

"If you could live forever, or die tomorrow, which would you choose?" Corinne put in.

He turned to her and said, "Cor! That's not my question!"

"No, that's a good one," Will said, and everyone agreed.

I was so distracted at that moment, and so generally shallow in life that the answer seemed easy. When I thought back to Warren's death and the fear of dying, I knew the idea of no longer living made me sick. Would I like to live one more day and live it properly? or would I like to live forever and ever, without having to worry about death? It was a monumental question from a sixteen year old boy- no one knew the depth behind the question though, or the reality in what I was being asked, and it wasn't meant to lay out the framework of my existence, but, in retrospect, it did.

I didn't look at Will as I asked, "Do I look old if I live forever?"

There was a laugh around the room, as if I had been joking. I smiled, as if I was trying to be witty and poke fun at my own beauty.

"Yes," Tommy answered, laughing. "You get wrinkly and gross as you get older."

The laughter mounted further.

I sat up straighter and said, "I would rather die tomorrow."

"Oh Rose," Vera said, smiling and teasing me as everyone around me laughed and took my truth as a joke. I let them, because if they thought I was being witty, then good.

Though, as I reveled in the attention and laughter, my eyes met Will's, and I frowned a little. He looked so disappointed, as if my answer hadn't surprised him in the least, and for that he was upset. It was because my love for material things and appearances- the major difference between us and what we always fought over- is what had broken us up. But he was only looking so disappointed because he was preaching the word of transcendentalism all the time. So, I rose my chin and smiled sweetly at him, and he shook his head, disappointed.

I looked away from him then, and I never looked back.

* * *

Miniature disasters of social proportions (also known as, my relationship with Will ending) were followed by disasters of much greater sizes.

Charles Lindbergh, Jr. was kidnapped on March first, 1932, and by March second, the entire world knew.

The following day, as Vera and I walked to school in the early morning chill of March, she brought it up. It didn't surprise me- the news- because my father had opened the paper at breakfast that morning and had made a sound of surprise and pity. Mother had been busy sprinkling cinnamon onto Stanley's oatmeal (as if he couldn't do it himself) so I had asked Father what was in the paper that had gotten his attention.

"The Lindbergh baby was kidnapped," he had said, staring at the paper, reading the headlines and following articles.

This made my mother gasp and freeze, "What?" she had asked, horrified.

"Yeah," my father answered. "Right out of his room too."

"What baby?" Stanley asked, shoveling oatmeal into his mouth.

I gave him a disapproving look as Charles said, "The famous aviator's kid, you dope!"

"Charles," I said beratingly, because Mother was too busy shaking her head sorrowfully to scold him for calling our little brother names.

"Even Hoover knows about the kidnapping."

Mother broke in, "He's going to help them find the baby, isn't he?" She looked beside herself.

My father shook his head, "I suppose so."

"Ma," Stan said, "it's just a baby."

My mother shook her head, saying, "Poor Mrs. Lindbergh," as if she hadn't heard my brother. "I can't imagine what she must be suffering."

"Well, don't cry over it, Jane," my father said, folding the paper and putting it down beside his plate. He began to eat his eggs, before swallowing and saying, "Lindbergh's got the whole world in his wallet- I'm sure Hoover and he will pay for the kid to get back."

I sipped my orange juice.

Glancing at the paper, I asked, "Can I look at the front page?"

He didn't even look at the paper as he said, "Of course, Rose."

I picked up the paper from beside his plate, unfolded it, and took a good look at the front page. My breath caught in my throat. Staring back at me, in simple ink and grain, were the likes of a boy angel. Charles Lindbergh Jr. had the sweetest face I had ever seen. With soft, curly blonde hair and a round face, all of his features were soft and angelic. He had a prominent dimple in his little chin, and- in the picture- a subtle smile on his tiny lips. His big, round eyes pierced my chest and I felt my heart break for the Lindbergh family. I then understood why my mother was so distraught over this. Poor Mrs. Lindbergh, what could she have endured all those hours, not knowing where her little boy was? My heart couldn't break as deeply as my mother's could- because I didn't fully understand a mother's love- but it did break all the same.

And when I walked with Vera, only a dozen minutes or so after looking at his picture, she brought it up.

"It's so sad," she said.

I shook my head sorrowfully, "I know."

"You don't think they're actually going to pay the ransom, do you?" she asked.

This confused me, "Why wouldn't they?"

"Because," Vera reasoned, "the kidnappers aren't going to give him back."

"What?!" I squawked.

She looked at me, confused, saying, "Whether the Lindberghs give the people the money or not, whoever has the baby is just going to kill him."

"Vera!" I shouted.

"What?" she countered. "I wish it wasn't the case, but you know it's true."

I glared at her, "I know no such thing!"

"Rosalie," she said, as if this was so upsetting and tiring I should just understand.

"Where are you even getting this?" I asked her.

She shook her head, "My father's-"

"Just because your father is a raving pessimist doesn't mean you should be too, Vera," I said, feeling as if I wanted to defend the life of this baby. It was like her saying that they would kill him, would make it so. "It's people like your father that give up on causes just because they _might_ fail."

"Rosalie-"

I cut her off, "The president of the United States is involved, Vera," I almost growled this. "They're going to find that baby and they're going to catch the criminals too."

She didn't say anything in reply.

"Maybe they won't even have to pay the ransom at all- Maybe the police will catch them first," I said with renewed passion.

Vera quietly said, "I hope you're right Rose."

"I am right," I said indignantly, hoping and praying that I was.

* * *

Upon discovering that the Lindbergh baby's body had been found, half-buried, in Mercer County, I felt the urge to cry.

After school, Vera, Patrick, Mrs. Goodchild, my mother, and I, all sat in the Goodchild's living room, listening to the radio prompts that followed the discovery.

He had been found the day before, by a truck driver who had needed to use a tree in place of a bathroom. The man, however, had discovered the badly decomposed body, no longer buried underground, and badly mangled. The body, which had been transported to a morgue in Trenton, New Jersey, had been identified by Mrs. Lindbergh as her son, and the mourning immediately began.

Vera squeezed my hand as we listened to the details, gasping and swallowing as the facts grew worse.

Very, very badly decomposed.

A lethally fractured skull.

The leg was missing.

No hands.

The baby had been dead for two months.

Perhaps that was worst of all. Just like Vera's father had predicted, they had killed the baby right away, and had sent the Lindberghs on a wild goose chase anyway. After all the reassurances via post- after all the lies that the baby was alive and well- none of it was true. He wasn't well, nor had he been alive. And the thieves had pressed on, sending articles of the boy's clothes- as if that proved he was unharmed- and assuring the parents that he was well cared for. They had insisted that they didn't want to hurt him, they just wanted the money. It disgusted me- all of it made me want to cry, hurt someone, and throw up, all at once. And all of the sympathy- all of the hope and support that the people of the country had offered- it was all for naught. The president had even said he would "move Heaven and Earth" to find the missing baby. After all of that hope- all of that shared worry and concern- had been expressed.... How could anyone do such a thing, I wondered. It just didn't make sense to me.

The face of the Lindbergh baby popped into my brain as they described the damage over the radio.

I didn't see a fractured skull or mangled limbs- I still pictured the little boy as I had seen him in the papers: angelic and sweet, with his curly hair and soft, dimpled chin. In my mind, he still smiled.

But, even with this image in mind, the crime still cut deep, and, with the rest of the country, we mourned.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Okay, I know it was a little gruesome, but I did change the rating to 'M' because things are going to get a little less happy-happy in this story. Also, I promise that there was a point to putting the Lindbergh baby kidnapping into the story- if it's not kind of obvious now, you'll see later on. Thanks for reading and reviewing! Next chapter will hopefully be up soon!


	11. The Wheel Begins to Turn

**Author's Note:** So, because I still can't figure the math out, and because no one on here seemed to be able to figure it out either, I'm forced to do the math my own way. Nothing will be drastically changed, so there's no need to worry. If anyone has a serious problem with this or has figured the math out, let me know. Also, who's seen 'Twilight?' Personally, I loved it but I want to hear everyone's opinions! Anyway.... This is the chapter where things start to get slightly familiar. Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Ten  
The Wheel Begins to Turn  
June 12, 1932-July 9, 1932**

* * *

We graduated from high school on June twelfth, 1932. I was only sixteen- one of, if not, the youngest in my class. It wasn't a massive affair, but it was big enough that it reigned in a good number of people from the town. And it didn't last long either- under an hour or so. It was really the after party- the block party that was hosted on our street- that was the main event of the evening.

Chinese lanterns were strung from lamppost to lamppost, illuminating the street- bright and colorful. The early summer air was laced with the scent of foods cooked by the neighborhood mothers, laid out on setup tables and dished out onto plates. The younger children ran freely across the street, from lawn to lawn, unhindered by traffic or cars. Fathers allowed their sons extra slack, feeling as if they were truly men now. Everything was light and wonderful, but undeniably heavy underneath; this was the end of an era. For me, I worried about where I was going with my life. I knew what I wanted, but I wondered if I'd be able to obtain it. Ultimately, though, the day made me feel relieved; life was finally beginning; I was an adult.

The sky was a salmon color, and the children were chasing fireflies when I stood, sipping lemonade with my mother.

"Rosalie, you really ought to talk to Mrs. Joel," she said to me, almost conspirtually. "She'll introduce you to the Harlings, and then to Billy Harling- You know he'll be starting his second year at Princeton in September."

I made a face, "Mother, Mrs. Joel always insists on taking my measurements when I talk to her."

Mother laughed at that, "Endure, my sweet."

"Perhaps not," I said lightly, smiling at her.

I was her favorite- I knew- so I could afford to joke with her and ignore her 'crucial' advice.

"Rosalie!"

Turning, I came face to face with Vera, who grabbed my arm and looked at me brightly. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were flushed with excitement, and I could tell something had happened that she desperately wanted to share with me.

Smiling ecstatically at my mother, she asked, "Mrs. Hale, can I steal Rose away for a little?"

Looking amused, Mother said, "Of course."

And just like that, my lemonade was out of my hand, into Vera's, into my mother's, and I was being dragged away. Weaving through bodies and around tables, Vera pulled me toward her house, disregarding the fact that she was yanking my arm or that I was being knocked into people. The look on her face was one of such pure delight though, so I just laughed. Whatever she had to tell me or show me was obviously so important and amazing that she couldn't just tell me in the open, in any other spot of the street.

"Vera!" I scolded her lightly. "Calm down!"

She was grinning at that point, "Rosalie, I can't!"

Pulling me into her empty house and into the front entranceway, she finally caught her breath.

"What is this nonsense about?" I asked, crossing my arms. Though, I was extremely curious. "Why did I have to be dragged into your house like a ragdoll?"

She shook her head and grabbed my arm, pulling it out of its fold. Squeezing my hand tightly, she said, "Rosalie, the most wonderful thing's happened!"

"What? Mary Beth decided to do something with her hair?" I joked.

Pulling at my hand, she shook her head again, bouncing on her heels, "No, _Rosalie_, I'm serious!"

I tried to sober up, "All right- all right. I'm listening. I'm serious too. You have my undivided- _serious_- attention."

Allowing the grin to take hold of her lips one more time, she squeezed my hand again and allowed there to be one long moment of suspense. Finally, she announced, "Patrick asked me to marry him."

That, I had not been expecting.

I froze in shock and surprise.

After a long moment, in which her smile didn't falter, Vera shook my arm back and forth, saying, "Well, congratulate me!"

"But," I sputtered, "you didn't say yes!"

"Of course I did!" she thought I was kidding. "I love Patrick!"

I couldn't fathom this. Vera? Married? No, we were still children.

I shook my head, disbelievingly, "But you're only sixteen!"

"_I'm_ seventeen," she said, her voice getting edgier. "Besides, my parents married when they were sixteen."

"But they'll never let you!"

She looked annoyed now. Whereas, she had been expecting me to jump up and down and shriek with her, I was trying to argue the fact that she _couldn't_ get married. Truthfully, I didn't want her to get married. I felt, in the very back of my mind, that if Vera got married, I would lose her. She wouldn't be my best friend anymore, she would be Patrick's wife first. It was mind-boggling and it made me nervous and angry. Besides, couldn't she at least have waited until I had a prospective suitor? So that we could do it together?

Looking as if she couldn't believe my reaction, she said, "Patrick's already asked my parents. He's been saving up his money and he's got enough for a house. My parents and his will help to pay for the wedding- they've all agreed."

"Vera," I said, allowing the disgust to creep into my voice as a last-ditch effort, "he's only a carpenter."

The look of unbridled anger and disbelief broke across her face.

I waited for the pistol to go off.

She narrowed her eyes at me, "So that's what this is about- the fact that Patrick's a carpenter?"

Her voice was condescending and sarcastic. She saw right through me- just like she always had.

"You can't do better than that?" she snapped.

I could never fight properly with Vera. When it came to anyone else I could bite your head off and stand my ground, but with my best friend it was different.

Swallowing, I said, "I just think you're too young- You're rushing into this-"

"Rosalie, I've been with him forever!" her eyes were wide with disbelief. "I love him- that should be enough- and I thought _you_ would understand that."

"I do-"

She cut me off, "No, you don't!" A vitriolic laugh escaped her mouth, "You don't, because you're jealous!"

That's when my pride kicked in, "I'm not jealous!"

"You are! You're jealous because you're not getting married first!"

I scoffed, "Don't be ridiculous, Vera."

"Is it so ridiculous?" she countered.

I just stared at her challengingly.

Shaking her head, she said, "Leave."

She was telling me to leave. Never before had Vera told me to leave her house or her presence, and it felt like I had been punched in the stomach.

"What?" I barely managed to say.

"Leave," she said, just as firmly, opening the door for me. "You can come back when you decide to look past your immaturity."

My hurt immediately morphed into anger. I gave her one last angry look, shaking my head, and then marched out of the house, back into the block party.

* * *

A week and a half or so after my fight with Vera, I was laying in bed, unable to fall asleep. Outside, the moon was swollen and bright, washing my bedroom in cool light. With my windows open, the comforting in-between of a June breeze was gently pushing its way into my room, barely licking at my face. I lay there on my back, staring at the ceiling- at the patterns of branches and leaves shadowed on the plane of paint and plaster. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a dog barking, and I listened to the sound with concentration, up until the moment it faded away.

_They want to have an October wedding- That's a little rushed, don't you think?_

_Vera's going to make such a lovely bride._

_I didn't expect that her parents would allow her to marry him- after all, he's only a carpenter._

_Do you suppose they'll live with her parents? I mean, how much money could he possibly have?  
_  
I grimaced, turning over and sighing in my bed.

After nearly two weeks of listening to the whole town talking about Vera and Patrick's engagement- without my actually talking to Vera herself- I felt as if I couldn't stand it anymore. I was tired of deflecting questions about the nuptials, and fending off questioning looks in regards to why I didn't know when the wedding would be, or what Vera would be wearing. And because of this, anyone who knew of Vera and Patrick, knew that her best friend wasn't speaking to her. But how could I talk to her? She had made the ridiculous accusation that I was jealous of her. Me? Jealous of Vera marrying _Patrick_? No. I wasn't. And my pride would not allow me to forgive her for that.

"You and Vera are being silly," my mother had told me the day before. "Just talk to her."

I shook my head as I looked through a catalogue of dress designs in the living room, "No."

"Rose, you're going to miss out on all of the wedding plans!" she said, as if she was missing out herself.

I shrugged in response. But really, I was aching to talk to her again for that very reason. I didn't want to miss out on helping Vera prepare for her wedding, I was always supposed to be a part of that! It made me cringe to think of her picking out her dress or her flowers without me. I needed to be there so she didn't make any grave fashion mistakes or pick some heinous flower or centerpiece.

It was in bed that night, while I stared out my window and toward the clear night sky, that I realized something. Vera was too important to me for me to keep this fight going. What did it matter if she was marrying before me, at seventeen, and choosing Patrick? She was my best friend- my sister, for all intents and purposes- and if this was what she wanted, what would make her happy, then who was I to be a bad friend and not support her in that? Besides, I wanted to be a part of this wedding, not watch disdainfully from the sidelines.

My pride lost to my conscious, and I decided that I would talk to her as soon as I could.

So, the following day, I called Vera on the phone and asked her if she wanted to go to a movie, just the two of us- so we could have a girl's night. She agreed, albeit icily.

After dinner, we walked from our street to the theater, silent and tense.

"So, why did you invite me to the movies, Rosalie?" she demanded as we walked. "What is this really about?"

Sighing, I told her, "I made a mistake, Vera."

She didn't say anything in response to this.

"When you told me you were getting married, I should have been more happy for you," I said. "It's just- It surprised me- I mean, I didn't expect either of us would be getting married so soon."

Vera still didn't speak.

I barreled on, "I might have been a little afraid that you won't be the same Vera once you marry Patrick- like we won't be able to be friends this way anymore."

"Rosalie, don't be stupid!" she said frankly.

I looked at her, the forgiveness in her eyes- mixed with amusement and loyalty.

"You know that nothing could change our friendship," she told me. "In a few months, I'll be Patrick's wife, but I'll always be your best friend."

No one had ever expressed such loyalty or closeness to me, and the tears pricked behind my eyes as I managed to smile sadly and ask, "Really?"

She smiled too, putting an arm around me and leaning her head against mine, "For someone who is so smart when it comes to clothes and hair, you sure are a moron."

I laughed at that, blinking the tears out of my eyes.

We walked in contented silence for a few moments, before Vera said, "Besides, we have to be friends. Who else will help me pick out the perfect dress and shoes for the wedding?"

I laughed out loud at that, because those had been my thoughts exactly.

* * *

In early July, Vera, Mrs. Goodchild, Vera's cousin Minnie, and I, all went into the city to look at dresses for the wedding. While we sat in the fitting and dressing room of a shop that Minnie's friend's aunt owned, watching Vera try on one of a kind dresses, we talked idly.

"What do you think of this one, Mother?" Vera asked, in regards to a dress she was examining in the full-length mirror.

Mrs. Goodchild dragged on her cigarette- in complete disregard for the dresses around her- and said, "Dear, you know I haven't a head for fashion."

Vera turned to me helplessly.

"I like it," I said. "But I think you could find better."

Thoughtfully, she gazed back in the mirror and agreed, "It's lovely- but it could be lovelier."

I nodded.

As she went behind the screen with the assistant, to change dresses yet again, Mrs. Goodchild leaned back on the stiff sofa we had been offered, and sighed.

"I abhor shopping," she said to us.

I ignored her with a docile smile.

Honestly, I had never really liked Mrs. Goodchild. She was a selfish woman who was dramatic and hot-tempered. Though, yes, she had fought and gone to prison for the rights of women in Washington, D.C., she had done so because she was tantalized by drama and adventure. She hadn't thought about poor Vera, left alone with a father who had no idea how to raise a child, and a grandmother who was dying by the hour. Upon moving to Rochester, Mrs. Goodchild liked to rouse up causes that she wasn't really passionate about, or stir trouble between neighbors and friends because she needed a bit of drama for herself. She smoked and drank as if her life depended on it, and she was anything but a good mother and wife. Vera saw right through her, but resigned herself to what she was dealt. I, on the other hand, hardly ever gave the woman the time of day.

Upon hearing her aunt's comment about shopping, Minnie trilled, "Aunt Emma, shopping is the _best_!"

"Yes, well," Mrs. Goodchild smirked, "we can agree to disagree on that."

We sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the sound of silk and chiffon rustling behind the screen.

Then, Vera's mother asked, "Rosalie, dear, have you met that new family that's moved into the Carlberg's old house?"

I looked over at her with my eyebrows knitted- because I hadn't even known there had been a new family to move in- and said, "No."

"Yes, well, not many people have," she said conspiritually. "The Cullens- they're called- apparently they just don't go out much."

From behind the screen, Vera called, "Mother, are you gossiping?"

"I don't gossip," Mrs. Goodchild replied indignantly. "We're just having a conversation."

Vera replied with, "Uh-_huh_."

Rolling her eyes a little, the older woman started in again, saying, "Yes, well, there's three of them. It's Mr. Cullen- who works at the hospital- his wife, Mrs. Cullen, and her brother, Edward."

"Why is her brother living with them, do you suppose?" Minnie asked in a whisper.

Mrs. Goodchild's eyes lit up with scandal, but she said, "I've no idea."

Vera came out from behind the screen in a nicely shaped gown of silk and lace.

"I like that one!" I said enthusiastically.

Her mother, however, was continuing on her Cullen tangent, saying, "I saw them when they first got here- they're extremely beautiful."

Minnie laughed.

"Even the men were!" Mrs. Goodchild said, her voice no longer flinty, but genuinely awed. "But it's so strange with beautiful people like that hardly leaving their house."

"Mother!" Vera barked, losing her patience. "Can we stop gossiping about the neighbors and focus on finding a dress!"

Looking over at her daughter, Mrs. Goodchild said, "Dear, are you sure you want one of these _handmade_ dresses?"

Then, they were off and arguing.

And just like that, I had been introduced to the Cullens.

* * *


	12. The Depths of Dreams

**Author's Note:** Baby Lindbergh is mentioned in this chapter again- but it's not the main reason I put his kidnapping in the story (that will be revealed later). Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Eleven  
The Depths of Dreams  
July 31, 1932-September 4, 1932**

* * *

By July, quite a lot of the wedding plans had been finished. Almost everyday, I went over the Goodchild's house and helped Vera and Mrs. Goodchild and Minnie with whatever needed to be done. Sometimes Patrick would be there too, and he'd give his opinion on something- but we overruled him most of the time anyway, so he usually stayed away. My thoughts and advice were most important to Vera, so if I so much as suggested staying home from one planning session, she all but started crying and begging on hand and knee. She told me I was indispensable, and so she couldn't lose me for more than a few minutes at a time. And as indispensable as I was, she often sent me on mindless little errands than Minnie could have been sent on.

That was how I first met Edward and Esme- two members of the infamous Cullen family.

Vera had sent me to go to her mother's friend's house to pick up one of four antique tiaras. She sent me because she said she trusted my judgment best, but really, I think it was because she needed Minnie for help with the guest list concerning their aunts and uncles, and Minnie and I continued arguing over petty things- like hairstyles and famous celebrities- so she was trying to get rid of me for a good half hour.

I remember that the sky was overcast and gray, threatening thunder and rain, that July afternoon. I hurried from Vera's toward Mrs. Joel's- a good mile or two away- hoping that it wouldn't rain before I got there. If it happened to start pouring, or if lightening started to strike, after I reached the house, I knew Mrs. Joel's son, Andy, would offer to give me a ride home. But, seeing as I wasn't under the cover of a roof yet, I hurried onward.

The heel of my shoe must have caught on the sidewalk when I stepped over the curb, because I stumbled forward into someone, who was quick enough to right me with cold, hard hands.

"Are you all right?"

I looked up, and came face to face with two of the most beautiful people I had ever seen in my life.

A young man- a boy, really- with bronze-colored hair and a face of stony white. His eyes were golden, fierce, and his whole body seemed to be chiseled from marble. It unnerved me to a see a boy that was better-looking than I was, and I bristled slightly. He had been the one I stumbled into- the one that had set me to my feet again- and he looked at me as if he was annoyed and tense, tightening up his posture and stepping backward quickly. Beside him, stood a young woman, older than him, but not by more than a handful of years. She was extremely beautiful too, also pale and stony, but in the most exquisite way. Her eyes were also gold, but softer. She looked at me with concern, as if she was genuinely worried I wasn't all right from my stumble.

Because I hadn't answered- I had been too shocked and awed to- she spoke again, her voice like the sound of warm and welcoming church bells, "Are you all right?"

"Oh," I shook my head and made myself come back to realization. "Y-Yes, I'm fine. Thank you."

She smiled at me.

Embarrassed, I looked at the boy, and said, "I apologize for stumbling into you, but thank you for righting me."

I was trying to be polite, but all he said in return was, "It's fine," with an equally melodic voice.

The woman gave him a disapproving look, still smiling, and turned to me and said, "You'll have to excuse my brother, he's never been very good with strangers, but we're trying to train him," giving me an amiable smile, as if she was trying to joke with me.

I tried to smile, but I felt as if I should be fleeing.

"I'm Esme Cullen," she said, holding out her hand for me.

I hesitantly took it, as if I was afraid she'd yank it off or twist it, saying, "I'm Rosalie Hale- It's nice to meet you."

"And this is my brother, Edward," she said, putting a hand on his back.

He barely lifted his eyes to look at me as he shook my hand.

"We should probably get going," he said, his voice low, turning slightly toward Esme.

She looked at him with another scolding look and then turned to me and smiled, "It was nice meeting you Rosalie."

I nodded with a forced smile of politeness, walking around them and away.

For the rest of the day, I couldn't shake the feeling of nervous agitation that followed closely at my heels.

* * *

It didn't take too long for that unease to wear off though. By the following week I had all but forgotten about it, and it didn't cross my mind again until August. Consciously, I didn't care about the Cullens. Aside from being a little disturbed that they were all so strange and beautiful- and, not only was it bad enough that Esme was more beautiful than I was, but the men were too!- I didn't think about them at all. Of course, they came up in conversation- the whole town gossiped about them, so it was inevitable. Some desperate women would even fake ailments just to be treated by Dr. Carlisle Cullen and get closer to him, but it was all happening in the background of my life. They were just more pieces to the Rochester gossip and happenings. I had no hidden vendetta or secret obsession with them. They were there, and that was it. My subconscious however, seemed to care far more about them than I knew though, because it unburied two of their characters and dragged them to the surface of my sleeping mind that August.

In my dream, I was in the master bedroom of Pleasant Green- a place I hadn't seen since I was twelve- and I was sitting on the bed, looking out of the bay window, across the trees of the surrounding mountains in the blue beginnings of evening.

After a moment, I was suddenly in the second bedroom of the house, making my way over to a crib. Leaning over the bars, I saw that it was empty, and that the blankets were faintly disturbed. In real life, an empty crib wouldn't send me into a fit, unless there was some importance behind it. And though the logical part of my brain was asking what the big deal was, my dream mind panicked. I felt my stomach drop and my heart speed up. Fear and thrashing anxiety blossomed in my chest and I screamed- though no sound came out.

Within a moment, Edward Cullen stood before me, his hand on my arm, asking me what was wrong.

I took it all in stride, and frantically told him our son had disappeared. _Our son?_ I remember thinking to myself. But that's what it had felt like to my dream self.

Dropping his hand from my arm, he said, "_It's fine_," curtly- just like his response when I had apologized for bumping into him on the sidewalk.

"_It's not!_" I had cried, feeling so weak that I was sure I was going to fall over. "_He's gone!_"

And then Esme Cullen was with us- as if she had been there all along, with her arm around me, saying, "_Edward, we ought to call the police._"

As if her words had brought them there by magic, the room was swarming with police officers next, scouring the room and taking photographs, questioning Esme and Edward, as I stood in the doorway, staring and shaking. Turning from the door, I fled down the stairs, and out of the back screen door. When I stood on the porch, I looked down from the hill that the house rested on, gazing over the dark-encroached dirt lanes and the pasture, empty of the Goodchild's horses.

The next thing I knew, I was standing before the gate, unlatching it, and running across the knee-high grass. I didn't stop until I was skirting the edge of the woods, when I turned and looked back up at the little white house. Pin pricks of yellow-orange light shown in the windows, but I could imagine the officers and the Cullens, milling around the room with the empty crib, and it made me cringe and tremble with renewed shivers. Something was strangely eerie about that house in the dark. I had it seen it a hundred times before in real life, but looking at it in my dream made my chest ache and my stomach pitch. Turning away from the picture of the house and the idea of the missing baby, I ducked between the trees, running through darkness and branches.

It wasn't until I reached the clearing with the pond that I stopped. Across the few meters of water, stood Warren Goodchild, holding the Lindbergh baby- my baby- in his arms.

I said something like, "_Give me my baby._"

He wouldn't.

Edward was standing beside Warren in an instant, and I told both of them to give me my baby.

"_The water is very heavy,_" Warren said nonsensically. "_Maybe it will carry him._"

And then he held the baby out over the water.

I screamed, but again, my throat produced no sound.

He made a motion to drop the baby, but didn't. I jumped forward anyway, ready to react, and felt into the water. All around me were icy bubbles and waves lapping against me, and it shocked my whole system. The pond was deeper than it had ever been in real life, and I tried to swim toward the surface. Though I didn't need to breathe in my dream, the water was dark and it made me feel claustrophobic, and as I kicked and clawed, my limbs grew tired and weary, but I never broke the surface. I grew so weak that I allowed myself to sink like a stone, and as I drifted downward, I opened my eyes. All I saw was blackness. And then, only slightly, I saw the figure of a shark swimming back and forth in the distance. The image was so ghostly and frightening, that I tried to scream underwater, but this time, only bubbles left my mouth.

At that point, my body felt so tired and I was so frightened of the nightmare that I jolted awake.

My room was hot and humid in the mid-August night, and I felt suffocated within my twisted covers. I threw the blankets off of my body, laying on my bed, staring into the darkness, feeling perspiration settling all over my body, uncomfortable and warm.

I thought of my dream, and I actually screwed up my face in confusion.

Warren, kidnapping my baby and threatening to drown it? Esme defending me when Edward wouldn't call the police to save his own child? And what was with that? Why were Esme and Edward Cullen, and Warren, in my dream? And then the shark? I never analyzed my dreams before, or even thought much about them, but this bothered me. It left me feeling confused and unnerved, and I shook in my bed as I perspired and dragged in oxygen.

Because just moving my covers didn't help me with cooling down, I stood up and hurried to my windows, pushing back the curtain and opening them further than the few inches they already were. The clammy summer air was stagnant though, and it hardly entered my room at all.

I felt restless anyway, so I put on my robe and shoved my feet into my slippers, leaving my bedroom and going downstairs. I stepped out of the back door and sat on the little steps there, leaning against the closed door and closing my eyes.

I stayed like that until my body temperature cooled down and my mind had stopped racing.

I forgot about that dream some time the next day. Truthfully, later on- after the Cullens had really become a part of my life- I wondered if it had a specific meaning or warning to it.

Now, I still don't know.

* * *

In September, there was less than a month until Vera's wedding.

One day, while Vera and I were finalizing some details, her mother was hanging around us (as usual), sipping hard liquor from a crystal lemonade glass, and making annoying comments.

"Why would you invite Agatha Martin?"

I heard Vera take a patience-enhancing breath through her nose, not saying anything.

"The woman still can't get over the fact that I protested in Washington."

At that moment I thought, _Oh my, here we go with the suffrage rants._

Scoffing, Mrs. Goodchild said, "I was force-fed in prison, and the woman has zero sympathy for me."

Rolling her eyes, Vera said, "Mother, you weren't force-fed."

"I _saw_ people get force-fed, so I was smart, and I ate," she said. "But I fought!"

Vera gave me this look that said, _Heaven help us.  
_  
"Agatha Martin is Mrs. Weissmen's best friend," Vera said, rewriting the name on our revised list. "She's invited."

"Whatever you say, dear," Mrs. Goodchild said, clearly annoyed, sipping from her glass.

While we were silent, rewriting names, the woman peered over our shoulders, hmming and huhing.

After a good few minutes of silence, she said, "You know who you should invite to the wedding, Vere?"

"Alice Paul?" Vera asked sarcastically, referring to one of the most famous women who led the suffragist movement in Washington, D.C.

I laughed quietly with Vera as her mother retorted, "I was very close with Alice Paul!"

"You stood next to her in the Occoquan hallway- once!" she said, amused.

My silent giggling continued.

Mrs. Goodchild regarded us with a dirty look, narrowing her eyes and saying, "I don't have to prove anything to you two."

"There's nothing to prove," Vera muttered, smirking.

I focused on writing, trying to suppress the laughter bubbling up inside me as Vera made fun of her mother.

After a moment of her mother's narrowed eyes, Vera asked, "Really, who do you want me to invite to the wedding, Mother?"

"I was going to say that you should invite the Cullens," she said haughtily, still annoyed at us.

I looked at Vera for her reaction.

She knotted her eyebrows, "Why? I don't even know them."

"Yes, but it'd be nice to invite them out since they're always inside," she said. "Besides, Edward would be a perfect match for Rosalie here."

I did _not_ laugh at that.

I wanted to be with a man that was handsome, but not one that was better-looking than I was.

"Mother, no."

Mrs. Goodchild sighed and threw her hands in the air, "You're hopeless," and she left the room.

Laughing humorlessly, Vera said, "Apparently we're hopeless, Rose."

I laughed a little, relieved, for some reason, that the Cullens wouldn't be at the wedding.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I love dreams and dream sequences, so you guys got a dream! Let me know what you think of the chapter!


	13. What We Wish We Had

**Author's Note:** So, today my French class went on a field trip to a museum that was housing an exhibit about Parisian influence on New York City. They had a lot of stuff about the thirties and the forties, and I was practically foaming at the mouth- begging to go to the other exhibits in the museum (they had a whole room dedicated to the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire and they WOULD NOT let me go. I very nearly started crying.). The exhibit showed influences on music and dance, interior design, architecture, and- sigh- fashion. I turned a corner and came face-to-face with about nine antique dresses and outfits from the time. Guys, I nearly fell over. The point of my story? In the center of the dresses was a custom-made wedding dress from Lord & Taylor in the early 1930's. The second I saw it I knew it was Rosalie's intended wedding dress - in my mind, anyway. I took a hundred pictures and videos, and stood, staring at the thing for about an hour. Sigh. I had to share that with you guys because none of my friends care all that much. Haha. Now here is chapter twelve!

* * *

**Chapter Twelve  
What We Wish We Had  
October 15, 1932-December 24, 1932**

* * *

"I'm going to throw up," Vera said to me, only ten minutes prior to her wedding.

Absently, I said, "Well, just don't do it on the dress," as I arranged her veil so it fell just right.

She turned to face me, her eyes looking very worried. We stood in the private room off of the rectory, with only a few minutes before the procession would begin. Though the room was filled with Vera's bridesmaids (two of her cousins, Corinne, and me) and her mother and grandmother, she spoke to only me, and no one heard her or paid any attention to the worry on her face. She looked every part the blushing bride in her white dress of floating lace, her veil arranged perfectly, and her hair pinned just right. The flowers in her bouquet were all colors appropriate for fall, but fashionable as well, and they complimented every aspect of the wedding. I had made sure of it. But the worry on her face didn't bode well with everything that had been planned, and I knotted my eyebrows.

"Rosalie," she whispered, grabbing my wrist with her free hand, holding her bouquet with the other. "What if I'm making a terrible mistake?"

I gave her an incredulous look and said, "Vera, don't be foolish-"

"What if Patrick isn't the one for me- the _true_ one?"

"Vera," I said quietly, but scoldingly, "how long have you been with Patrick? How sure have you been that you love him?"

She gazed into the flowers in her hand, biting her lip, "I do love him."

"And he loves you," I told her.

Before I could continue though, she cut me off, "You loved Will, didn't you? And he loved you?"

"Oh Vera," I grimaced. "Don't compare your relationship with Patrick to that joke I had with Will."

She shook her head, "What if- in a few years- Patrick and I start fighting, and we hate each other?"

"You'll fight," I told her. "Everyone fights- But you won't hate each other."

She did not look convinced.

"Vera, Will and I were just not meant to be," I told her, drudging up a past and hurt that I had been so successful in smothering (although, back then, I had convinced myself that I wasn't hurt- that I didn't care). "You and Patrick are different."

Vera didn't say anything for a moment, as she looked into her bouquet, biting her lip, thinking. And, in turn, I watched my friend closely.

It baffled me that someone could be so nervous and unsure on their wedding day. Wasn't Vera sure she loved Patrick? wasn't that enough to push her onward? After all, she was the one who had been all bubbles and glee when she had announced the engagement in June. And now, now she was second-guessing their relationship and their love. Part of me wanted to take my best friend in my arms and tell her that she didn't have to go through with a wedding if she wasn't completely sure. An edge of my heart was telling me to make this easier for her, to stop her from making a mistake if she thought that's what she was doing. Another part- a much larger part- was reminding me of all the times Vera had talked about her love for Patrick, and of all the work and preparation that we had both put into planning this wedding. That part reigned, and I knew I couldn't let her make the mistake of walking away from this.

"Vera," I said, dropping my voice even lower than before. "If you think you can walk away from this- away from a marriage, and the rest of your life, with Patrick- and feel good about it tomorrow, then do it."

I knew I was walking on thin ice by suggesting that, but I knew Vera enough to know that if she saw the alternative and didn't like it, she'd easily turn it down. Besides, there was hardly a chance she would walk away from this. If anyone could walk away from a marriage, it would be Vera- she didn't care, to hell with propriety and gossip- but she wouldn't do that to her family. I knew the wedding was going to happen, she just needed the confidence for it.

"You love Patrick too much to do that him- or to yourself," I told her, grabbing her free hand. "Vera, you'd be miserable without him."

She looked up into my eyes; pale blue met hushed violet.

After a moment, she said, "I _would be_ miserable without him."

Relief washed through me.

She was about to say something else- it looked like to thank me- but her mother said, "Girls, they're about to start."

She looked at me and I gave her hand a single squeeze, smiling confidently at her. The 'pistol' smiled back, and moved forward to be married.

* * *

Vera and Patrick officially moved into their new home- a good few minutes across town from our parents' houses- in the beginning of November. It wasn't one of the nicest houses in Rochester, but it suited them. It had two floors and a cellar. There was a modest parlor, with antique lace curtains on the windows, and nice secondhand furniture that all matched and went together appropriately. They had a small dining room that was right off of their dated kitchen, with a table that was much too nice for the room- a gift from Vera's parents. The staircase that led upstairs wasn't grand by any means, and the carpet on it was trodden and dusty, but Vera did a good job of scrubbing it and renewing it. The master bedroom wasn't very grand, and they had a simple, wrought-iron bed and coverlet set. There was only one other bedroom, and then a sort of miniature sitting room, that I'm sure could not be used for an actual person to inhabit. Honestly, I felt bad that my best friend had to live in conditions that were so below average. If I had been in her shoes, I know I would have been crying if I didn't have a mansion, four bedrooms, at least two baths, a beautiful dining room, an exquisite parlor, and a modern kitchen. I would have also wanted a maid and a cook- because weren't these the things that you got when you married and started your life? Vera, however, was proud of her little house, no matter how much improvement it needed, and she was content to cook and clean on her own.

Because she was so proud, and because she kept her promise that we would still be best friends, she invited me over frequently. When Patrick was working we'd shop and lounge around her little parlor, as if nothing had changed. We had more freedom, because there were no parents telling us what we could and couldn't do, but for the most part, everything remained much the same. And for all of this, I was tremendously relieved.

My relief, however, faded into jealousy. I didn't want a carpenter for a husband, or a pathetically arranged and poorly proportioned house. I envied Vera for having a house to decorate, for having someone to cook for, for being able to daydream about her future with him, for having a husband that loved her. It had felt like I had never experienced someone loving me- because I was certain what I had had with Will was not love- and I was jealous. I wanted to know what it was like, I wanted someone to care for me and love me. And I was beautiful and charming, so why couldn't I obtain these things that Vera had gotten so easily?

I felt the pressure of Vera's marriage from my parents. They always made comments about her house or her life then, hinting that I wasn't accomplishing what was expected of me in life. What was I doing still at home? I was only sixteen, but they wanted me to attend more parties and win over the richest bachelors of Rochester. To them, they wanted me to have what Vera had, only ten times better. I wanted it too, but not nearly enough for their social-climbing tastes. What did they want me to do though? Throw myself at wealthy young men, demanding their attention and love? I did want someone who was rich and handsome, but also someone who truly loved me.

I wanted what Vera had too, and I wanted to make my parents happy, so, I bent under the pressure and barreled onward with fervency.

* * *

"Rosalie."

The voice sounded surprised, but pleased.

I turned away from watching Bobby and some boy from out of town, trying to keep spoons balanced on their noses while they amusedly argued over politics. When I was completely turned around, I came face to face Will Hollinday.

"How are you?" he asked.

I couldn't say anything for a moment because I was so surprised. Blinking one too many times, I said, "I'm fine. And yourself?"

"I'm doing well," he smiled.

We stood in awkward silence for a moment, and then I tried to make conversation and appease my own curiosity, "I didn't know you were friends with Allie Simpson."

Allie was a few years older than most of our group from high school. She was married, and she had held the mid-November soiree as a housewarming party. Because she had spent much of high school with her cousin, Corinne, as her best friend, she had gotten to know all of the girls over the years, and so, had invited us to the party. Though, she hadn't gone out with us when we would be with the boys too, and so she wasn't good friends with them, so I was surprised to see Will there. Not only that, but I was shocked that he was talking to me.

"Oh yeah," Will said, looking at the party around him. "Our parents are good friends, so our families always vacationed together when we were young."

I nodded, holding a crystal glass of warm cider in my hands, saying, "I didn't know that."

He nodded, and we were silent again.

I had forgotten how Will could be so content with silence- of any variety or feel- and it unnerved me. This was awkward and tense, and I wanted to fill it up with formal questions and petty words of amusement and kindness. I wanted him to be like everyone else and to be fake and forced. But he wasn't. So I had to be.

A little accusingly, I said, "I don't remember seeing you at the wedding."

"No, I wasn't there," he replied. "I was in Alaska- in the mountains with some friends."

"And Patrick didn't mind that?"

He shook his head, "No- I had been planning the Alaska trek since before school ended. He understood."

"Oh."

"Did you enjoy it?"

I looked at him, "Enjoy what?"

"The wedding."

"Oh," I said, berating myself for being so foolish. "Yes. It was beautiful."

He smiled, amused, "And the clothes?"

"Perfect," I spat, narrowing my eyes at him.

He chuckled a little, "I'm sorry, Rose, I'm not trying to be rude."

I gave him a skeptical look.

"I just remember that you've always been fond of clothes," he said.

I just stared at him.

Clearing his throat, he knew it was time to change the subject, so he asked, "Read any good books lately?"

He was still poking fun at me. He knew I didn't like to read.

Forcing myself to be bright and cheerful, I smiled charmingly and said, "No. You?"

"_Brave New World_, by Aldous Huxley," he said, proudly. "I highly recommend it."

Of course he did.

Looking back on it, I know he was just trying to be friendly with me again, to joke with me like nothing had changed. But I was so proud that I thought he was surely just making fun of the aspects of my character that had helped us to break up. Though part of me wanted to laugh and joke with him- to be friends again- another part of me was angry and stubborn. He had ended things with me. There was no chance I was going to be friends with him.

"I'll remember that," I said.

He looked like he was about to say something else- to further the conversation- but I wasn't going to have any of that.

"If you'll excuse me, I have to find Vera," I said, not explaining why, and walked forward, leaving him alone behind me.

* * *

On Christmas Eve I went to a party with my parents and my brothers. It was at the Price's house, and everyone was there. I spent the evening chatting with my friends and flirting with Bobby and Corinne's cousin, Andrew, from Virginia. He was going to be a lawyer, and my parents were thrilled that I had decided to talk to him. In particular, I didn't like him, but he was cute, and he smiled so brightly when I talked to him, that it was kind of amusing for me. I occasionally caught him staring at me during dinner, and I loved the attention and the adoration, but I didn't want him to think he actually stood a chance. So, I ignored him for the rest of the meal.

It was sometime after dessert that I left. Vera and Patrick had stayed home from going to any parties that night, and the plans had been made beforehand that I would spend a few hours with them after I went to the Price's party.

So, once I said goodbye to the Prices and thanked them for having me, I slipped out of the house-away from a few avid admirers that I didn't quite fancy- and into the cold darkness of the night.

The sky was heavy overhead, and I couldn't see the moon at all. Street lamps lit my way as I crossed town, shivering and tiptoeing over ice patches. The night was jovial, and I could feel it, even from outside. Passing brightly lit windows, smelling the scents of Christmas Eve dinner- it all made me smile and linger in the cold as I went. Carolers trooped down the streets, saying a cheerful hello to me as they passed, tipping their hats and dipping their skirts. I smiled brightly at them, because everything seemed so light and wonderful.

Halfway to Vera and Patrick's, it started to snow. The flakes were thick, but small, and they stuck to the ground underneath me. Snow had always made me happy- particularly because I had always played in it when I was little- and I practically wanted to dance in it as I walked. Giggles rose in my throat, but I kept them in, hurrying onward.

I took a short-cut down a deserted lane that crossed over a lot of grass, with only an abandoned farmhouse and one inhabited house along the way. It never crossed my mind whose house it was, and I never feared going down the way.

When I was down the lane, the snow and the magic of the night took hold of me. I let myself go, and I twirled a little in the lane, turning my face up to the elements, allowing the flakes to fall on my lashes and cheeks. I laughed a little, feeling more happy and easy than I had in a long time. And then, it stopped. Something took hold of me that made me frown. I felt like I was being watched.

I looked to my right, and saw the one inhabited house a good few meters away from me- the Carlberg's old house- the _Cullen's_ house.

And there, in the front picture window, stood a tall, thin figure staring at me.

Edward Cullen.

For a moment, I stared straight at him. Neither of us faltered.

My dream from August sprang to mind, and I turned away from him, hurrying down the lane, more eager to get to Vera's house than before.

* * *

Vera, Patrick, and I spent the remainder of Christmas Eve listening to the radio and eating peppermint candies next to their fireplace. I helped them decorate their tree with little baubles and tinsel, and we laughed and joked, drinking in the Christmas cheer like it was wine. I pushed all thoughts of Edward Cullen from my mind, and focused on having fun with my friends.

At one point of the evening, Patrick went down into the cellar to get more logs for the fire. Vera seemed to get excited and gleeful- like when she had told me she was engaged to Patrick in June.

"Rosalie," she said. "I have something to tell you."

I draped some tinsel over a naked branch, turning to her and asking, "What is it?"

Grabbing my hand in hers and squeezing it, she said, "I wasn't sure if I should tell you tonight- We were going to wait until after Christmas to tell everyone- But I'm so happy, and you're my closest, best friend-"

"Vera," I laughed. "What is it?"

Grinning brightly, she said, "We're going to have a baby!"

I froze, my eyes wide and a half-smile frozen on my face.

"When?" I managed to ask.

She laughed, "Eight months!"

"Well, Vera that's- That's-" I was speechless. Vera wasn't old enough to be a mother! I was barely used to her being a wife! But I was her best friend, and I thought about how happy she looked, and that a baby would be fun to dress up and play with, so I said, "That's wonderful!"

She laughed and pulled me into a hug, whispering, "Oh Rosalie, I've never been so happy!"

I fruitlessly tried to smile, and I was glad she couldn't see me within her embrace.

"I'm so happy _for you_,Vere," I said softly in return.

I had so many questions for her- questions about unspeakable, grown-up things.

But I couldn't ask them, because I had never felt more lost or abandoned.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Again, I had to do the math my own way. I hope nobody minds greatly!


	14. More Bitter than Sweet

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen  
More Bitter than Sweet  
January 14, 1933-February 17, 1933**

* * *

From June to October, Vera had been all anyone could ever talk about. When I went to parties or went out with friends, I was asked about the wedding plans, or about Vera's engagement to Patrick. That ceased after the wedding itself. Then, after a few months of calm, that attention was back on her- with me, shoved to the side. With the news of her pregnancy made public, I felt as if I was being pressed into the woodwork again. No one ever cared if Rosalie was at a party, or if Rosalie was around, unless Vera wasn't- so they could ask me questions about her and get the inside views on the unborn child. Well- actually- to be fair, I still received attention- but I _felt_ as if everyone had forgotten about me, which was just as bad. And because of this, I was jealous. More than anything, I was happy for Vera, but inside, I was still bitter and angry. The feelings of abandonment and loneliness wouldn't wear off, and so, I stood on the sidelines of her life unfolding, feeling as if I had been forgotten, watching it all happen.

The fact that Vera was married, already expecting, and that I didn't even have a prospective suitor, did not go unnoticed.

It was late one January night. I couldn't sleep, so I put on my robe and slipped out of my room. I knew my brothers were asleep, and I was sure both of my parents were, so I descended the stairs to go to the kitchen. If I was lucky, Cooky would still be awake, darning socks or knitting her friends blankets. She'd make me some tea and tell me stories about when she was little, growing up in Pennsylvania.

Standing just outside the kitchen, I stopped, hearing my mother's voice from within. I waited for a minute, and when I heard her gossiping I stepped back and hid in the shadows of the adjacent wall, listening.

"Molly Prith moved to London with him," she was saying. "Can you imagine?"

Cooky made a 'hmmmm' sound.

Mother sighed after a moment's silence, "And then there's still this business about Vera Goodchild expecting a child."

_There's still this business?_ What, did she think Vera could get over it like a cold?

"Oh yes," Cooky said fondly. "Little Miss Vera."

Mother laughed drily, "Yes, Vera." I suspect she was shaking her head now, and she said, "I thought the engagement was fast, but now- She's already expecting a _baby_?"

It didn't sound like my mother approved.

"And with a carpenter," she clucked her tongue. "I don't know how Emma even allowed it."

Cooky didn't reply. When we ranted to her, she usually just nodded or shook her head dutifully.

My mother sighed again, "When Rosalie marries- sooner, rather than later, I hope- it most certainly will not be to anything less than a manager."

I realized- with some horror- how much of my mother's attitudes had rubbed off on me. For a moment, I asked myself, 'What's wrong with a carpenter?' and then I realized my own words to Vera, back in June.

_Vera, he's only a_ carpenter_._

It made me cringe.

"Miss Rosalie's still young yet, ma'am," Cooky said amiably.

Mother sounded bitter when she said, "But getting older everyday. And Vera's married and starting her family- I just think that maybe Rosalie should follow that lead soon."

"I'm sure she will, ma'am," Cooky said.

"Rosalie's beautiful and young," Mother said, vindictive. "Why hasn't she found a husband before Vera?"

Cooky didn't say anything.

Mother sighed once more, "It's just strange, that's all."

I leaned against the wall behind me, staring into the darkness of the room, listening to the sound of my mother move onto other topics- like whether John Higgins was going to quit his job at the printers, or whether he was going to follow Allison Rowe to New York City with her family. I wasn't listening though, I was thinking about her words.

Whose fault was it that Vera was married and pregnant before I even had a suitor? I couldn't make out whether or not my mother was blaming me or not, but I immediately assumed she was. She was embarrassed that my best friend was excelling at life after school, and I wasn't. My parents wanted marriage and money for me, they didn't want to worry about me or have to help me in any way. They thought my beauty would swipe up the first caller and take care of all their wishes. But with the hysteria over Vera's marriage, and now the excitement over the baby- When was I going to find someone to marry? Besides, none of the clods in Rochester were prominent enough or interesting enough to keep my attention at that time. So my mother worried, and she gossiped, and she steamed with jealousy over the fact that her daughter wasn't the one everyone was talking about, even if only for a few months. She envied Mrs. Goodchild- the woman she had just barely tolerated and made fun of over the years- because of her daughter's marital and maternal accomplishments. Now I can look back and be sure it wasn't my fault. She wanted me married and starting a family for her own selfish reasons. At the time, however, I took it personally, and I felt wounded.

The pressure to get on with my life felt like a weight lowering itself onto my conscious mind, and I returned to my room that night, only to stare at the ceiling, feeling guilty and upset.

* * *

In February, Prohibition ended. Patrick celebrated by openly displaying a bottle of brandy in his and Vera's living room.

"You're a child," Vera scolded, laughing as she watched him rearrange the bottle on the silver platter it was resting on.

He smiled as he turned it a fifth of an inch to the right, his friend, Jackson, egging him on the whole time. It wasn't as if they hadn't consumed alcohol during the restriction, it was just- now they could be public about it and have fun. So we laughed over their excitement and poked fun at them for being so enthusiastic about the change.

"You want to have a drink, don't you, Rosalie?" Patrick asked, ready with a new glass.

When I thought of liquor, I thought of Mrs. Goodchild, stumbling around the house as Vera and I played dress-up when we were twelve. I thought of her, smelling of sour alcohol and smoke, slurring her words and annoying us with suffrage stories she made up as she went along. I thought of father, hiding homemade beer and whiskey in the cellar of our house all through my childhood, pretending as if he wasn't breaking the law and housing contraband. Liquor made me think of silly people doing silly things, and I was _not_ silly.

Laughing at the ridiculousness of Patrick thinking I was going to drink, I said, "Oh no- No, thank you."

"Come on!" Jackson urged, his reddish-brown hair flopping into his eyes. He raised his glass, toasting me with: "Prohibition got the ax!"

Patrick grinned, saying, "Yeah- Just a sip?" He was ready to pour the bottle.

Vera rolled her eyes, "Don't be bullies, you two. She's never had a drink before and she doesn't need you two bothering her about doing it now."

The way she said it made me feel immature, like she was unintentionally condescending toward me. Suddenly, I felt left out and separate, like a child trying to spend time with the grown-ups- I mean, even Vera was sipping at a tiny bit of brandy over the course of the night. And it occurred to me, I _hadn't_ ever had a drink of alcohol before. And Vera had? Somehow it made sense. She just seemed more worldly and rebellious, and I was my parents favorite, abiding and perfect. And as I watched Vera sip the slightly tinted liquid (obviously unaware of the harm she could have done to her unborn child) I felt a stinging indignancy. I could be every bit as grown up as they could.

And suddenly, all of my prior thoughts of alcohol fell away. I didn't think of Mrs. Goodchild or my father, I thought of fitting in and being sophisticated.

"I think I _will_ have a drink," I said.

Patrick and Jackson grinned, saying, "That's the spirit!"

As Patrick handed me a glass, I took a whiff of the beverage. It was foreign to me, and so strong that it made my eyes water- almost as if the fumes from my father's car were mingling with sour grapes and lumber. When the scent got caught in my nostrils, I really didn't want to drink it. For a split-second I didn't care if I was sophisticated or included, I just wanted to save my nose. But, when I saw their expressions- those of watching a novice try something for the first time- I inflated my pride and decided that I would drink the whole glass before the night was up.

"Rosalie," Vera said. "You really don't have to drink it. It's _strong_-"

I scoffed, saying, "Good." If she could handle it, so could I.

Jackson laughed, his amber eyes sparkling as he said, "I like this one Patrick. Why has Vera been hiding her?"

Preening under the compliment, I held my breath and took a delicate- but healthy enough- sip of the brandy.

It didn't taste good- it almost felt like it was twisting my taste buds- and it felt hot, so I swallowed quickly. My throat burned all the way down, and I took a deep breath once it was down, my eyes began to tear profusely and my nose felt like it was going to run a little. I tried my best not to sputter or choke- clearing my throat daintily and breathing through my nose- because I wanted to seem nonchalant and good at drinking. I wanted to come off as cool and composed, unfazed by anything.

"Well?" Patrick asked.

"Good," I replied, diving in with a masochistic drive for glory, taking another sip.

It burned a second time, all the way down.

* * *

Patrick's friend, Jackson, walked me home that night.

Though Patrick offered to drive both of us- me to my parent's home, and Jackson to his brother's- Vera disagreed.

"Vere, it's freezing out," Patrick argued.

She shook her head, and I watched them from where I sat on the couch, laughing with bleary eyes. "She's drunk- the cold air might help her straighten up before she gets home."

"I'm fine, Patrick," Jackson said, and his voice was clear. "I can walk her."

"You don't mind?" he asked in return.

Jackson shook his head, "No, it's fine."

While Patrick gave Jackson directions to my parent's house, Vera helped me into my coat and hat. I giggled, finding it so comical that she had to do up the buttons for me. Swaying on my feet, I tried to think of the words to thank Vera for having me over, but my tongue felt thick, and my mouth was dry, and I couldn't form the words. As she wound one of her own scarves around my neck and lent me a pair of gloves I tried to complain that I was already hot- perspiring under all of the layers- but she just ignored me.

"No, V-Vera," I argued. "It's _hot_."

She sighed, "Rosalie, it's not hot outside."

I giggled again, "I'm not _out_side!"

"You will be," she said, rolling her eyes. "Just- try to pretend like you didn't have two and a half brandies when you get home, okay?"

I saluted her and said, "Aye aye, Captain!"

"Ready to go?" Jackson asked me. I smiled at him brightly and let him lead me out the door.

Outside, the cold hit me like a shock, but once we were on our way down the street, it felt nice to be in the cool air, under the clear, velvet sky.

"I love the cold," I said dreamily.

Jackson laughed a little, humoring me by saying, "Do you?"

I nodded, the world twinkling in my blurred vision- like a fairy tale city.

We walked in silence for a few moments, turning a corner and continuing down the lamp lit street ahead of us.

There was no wall keeping my thoughts inside- those thoughts that I usually kept stopped up in my brain- and I spoke freely, curiously and openly.

"Do you think Vera and Patrick are going to have a girl or a boy?" I asked, teetering on my heels slightly.

Jackson seemed confused by this, "What- Oh, you mean the baby?"

"Of course- the baby!"

He shrugged, "I don't know. I'm sure Patrick would like a boy."

I sighed, "I hope they have a girl- Then I could help Vera dress her up and do her hair."

"She's not going to have much hair at first," Jackson laughed.

I giggled, swatting at his arm and saying, "I know _that_!"

Because I _was_ slightly inebriated, I couldn't see the admiration in Jackson's eyes. I didn't catch the way he was staring at my lips or the way he was smiling, all the signs I could have caught- the ones indicating that he was starting to like me- had I not had two and a half glasses of brandy. But, I had wanted to seem grown-up and mature, so I had insisted Patrick keep pouring me another glass, every time I finished one. I ignored Vera's protestations the whole time, claiming that the liquor wasn't all that bad. And it stopped burning my throat as I drank more and more. I just focused on the fruit and woody accents in the alcoho and the way it made my throat feel fuzzy and warm, trying to ignore the rest. Besides, the feelings of warmth and contentment that followed the drink were lovely. Yet my attempts at seeming mature just made me drunk and foolish.

Jackson turned down the shortcut- the one that snaked past the abandoned farmhouse and the Cullen's house- and I stopped.

"Do we h-have to go down this way?" I hiccuped, remembering the fear that lined my stomach in December- when I had caught Edward Cullen staring as I twirled innocently in the falling snow.

Jackson told me, "This is the way Patrick told me to go- He said it's fastest."

It was, and I was starting to get cold, so I reluctantly followed him down the lone, dirt road.

As we walked, I thought about the dream I had of Edward- the one where he was going to allow Warren to drown our child. I thought of how he had been staring out the window, and how I had felt chilled down to my toes just from the way his gaze seemed to pin me to the very atmosphere. I could recall the way the hair on my neck had stood on end, the way I had shivered and turned quickly, wanting to get away. It reminded me of when I had gone to Pleasant Green with Vera- when we had crossed paths with a fox. The animal was foreign and wild to us, and so we had stood, clutching each other, terrified. Finally, Vera let out a shriek, and it had run away. But the fear then, and the fear upon seeing Edward staring at me, was the same, and I remembered that as Jackson and I walked past the Cullen's again.

We were right in front of the house, and my fear was reaching its peek, when a squirrel darted into the lane in front of us, away from the Cullen's house and into the field across the way. Because I was already scared, slightly drunk, and surprised, I let out a squeak, and reached over, clutching Jackson.

Laughing, he said, "Rosalie, it was just a squirrel."

"A what?!" I asked in return, feeling as if my heart was stuck in my throat.

"A squirrel," he reiterated.

I slowly let go of his arm, saying, "Oh."

As we started walking again, I was shaking slightly, peering at the Cullen's house from the corner of my eye. The family unconsciously made me uneasy, but the fact that alcohol had been thrown into the equation made matters worse. I felt edgy and nervous, trying to suppress the feelings in my brain. I hoped Jackson couldn't tell. It was bad enough that I had been scared of the squirrel, but if he figured out I was afraid of the Cullens for no apparent reason- I'd seem particularly strange.

Once we had reached my parents' house, Jackson walked me to my door. I thanked him, my tongue fumbling over the syllables, and concentrated on keeping my legs straight. Before I could reach for the door, he leaned in and tried to kiss me. Though he was generally handsome, I wasn't in the mood to be kissed- my heart was still weak from being so frightened by the squirrel, from walking past the Cullen's in the dark- so I turned my head slightly. He caught the corner of my lips and pulled away, looking embarrassed.

"Good night, Mr. Jackson," I said, because- I realized- I didn't know his last name, and hurried into the house.

My parents were sitting in the parlor when I entered.

"Did you walk home, Rosalie?" my mother asked over her book.

"Patrick's friend w-walked me home," I managed to say, realizing how dry my mouth was.

I wanted a drink of water. My head felt as if it was being pressed on all sides, and there was a painful thudding between my eyes. Though I tried my hardest to focus my sight on my parents, my vision was blurry, and my mind was swaying dangerously. As I tried to keep my balance, the instability of the whole night made my stomach lurch and bubble noxiously. I pressed my lips together, because I suddenly felt like gagging.

Father looked up from his paper, asking, "What friend?"

"Jackson," I quickly said, shutting my mouth again.

"Who's Jackson?"

I swallowed hard, answering, "Patrick's friend- He goes to school in the city."

"Is he nice?"

"Yes," I said hurriedly, wanting to be in my room, on my bed, under the covers, with the windows open.

Mother, who always noticed everything about her favorite, peered at me and asked, "Are you feeling all right, Rosalie? You look a little flushed."

This made Father look away from his paper again, peering at me from over his glasses.

"I don't feel so well," I said, swallowing down the bile threatening to rise in my throat.

Mother stood and walked over to me, putting a hand on my forehead. "You feel warm," she said. She sniffed, "Rosalie, you smell like brandy."

I swallowed again.

"What?" Father almost barked.

"Have you been drinking?" she asked.

I was sure my stomach was roiling in my middle just to punish me for having the alcohol. As much as I wanted to answer my parents, I couldn't open my mouth without vomiting everywhere.

"Rosalie."

I shook my head, my lips pressed together.

"What's that smell then?"

_Please, leave me alone,_ I wanted to say.

My father stood then, "You'll answer your mother when she asks you a question."

"It's-" I swallowed. "Perfume and car fumes- We were looking at-" I swallowed. "Patrick's car."

They stared at me. I knew they didn't believe me, but it seemed like they didn't want to believe I'd drink either.

"I don't feel very-" swallow, "well." Gulp, shiver. "I think I'm going to-" double gulp, "-go to bed."

Before they could protest I all but ran up the stairs and into the bathroom. I ripped off my coat, scarf, hat, and gloves, shaking the whole time. And my stomach roared angrily as I tried my hardest to keep everything down. But it didn't work. I couldn't even make it to the toilet. I threw up right into the sink, the alcohol burning all the way up- just as it had down.

* * *


	15. Broken Lavender

**Author's Note:** Thank you everyone for reviewing and PMing in regards to this story. Any feedback is great, and I appreciate anyone who's taken the time to read and let me know what they're thinking. In this chapter you'll read about the Lavender Ball, which was actually a skewed version of the traditional Lilac Ball in Rochester. It's different than the Lilac Ball- keep that in mind. Also, thanks to Angeliss: our ongoing PM conversations are extremely helpful and appreciated. Here is something to boost your hatred for Royce- let me know if I went to far with it. Everyone, enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen  
Broken Lavender  
February 18, 1933-May 14, 1933**

* * *

"Get up."

Suddenly, I was awake, and I was painfully aware of the fact that the curtains on my windows had been pushed back, and that I had a splitting headache. My mouth felt cottony and thick, and my stomach, hollow and turbulent. I groaned and turned over in bed, toward the wall and away from the light. Grabbing my blankets, I wrapped them around me tightly, snuggling into the perfect warmth of my bed on that chilly, winter morning. Just as I imagined myself slipping back into sleep, my blankets were ripped off of me. The cold surrounded me, and I groaned, cracking an eye open and half-turning, to see Vera standing beside my bed.

She stared at me incredulously and said, "You truly amaze me."

"Thank you," I responded dryly, making a grab for the blankets that she had dropped at the end of my bed.

"No," she smacked my hands. "I just had a chat with your mother."

I groaned, "And you had to wake me up to tell me that? Vera, it's _cold_!"

"She knows you were drinking last night," she told me, refusing to hand me my blankets. "How did you not get in trouble?"

A shudder swept through my body as I remembered throwing up multiple times, before finally collapsing in my bed and falling asleep. I cringed, remembering the feel of my body heaving and my stomach twisting with each rise of alcohol and stomach acid. Feelings of embarassment and disgust crept up my spine as I tried to push the memory from my mind. Vomiting was so unpleasant and so disgusting. I hated everything about it. And though my parents pretended as if my being sick was just a twenty-four hour stomach flu, I was still ashamed. The shame was particularly hot, because after my father had gone to bed, my mother had stayed up, holding back my hair and wiping my face with a cool wash-cloth as I cried and shook on the floor of the bathroom.

"Oh Rosalie," she had said, half-embarrassed, half-sympathetic. "It's okay- You're okay."

The fact that she had been there with me made it all the more worse. I would have rather vomited all by myself, than have had her so close to my foolish and natural punishment.

In response to Vera's question, I just groaned.

She scoffed a little as I pressed my face into my pillow, "You deserve this for being such an idiot last night."

"Vera, shut up," I said monotonously, into my pillow.

"Well, you _were_ being stupid," she said, unfazed.

My head pounded, and each word she said drilled into my brain like a nail through gentle glass.

Sighing, she said, "Didn't I tell you to stop after the first one? But, no, you had to go on and on and on-"

"Vera!" I groaned loudly into my pillow.

"I just don't get it- Your parents don't even _care_!" she sounded surprised, but also annoyed.

I didn't say anything to her in response. All I wanted was water and sleep, and maybe for her to leave me alone at that moment.

"You know, I had some wine at Patrick's cousin's house two years ago," she told me. "I came home and the second my parents smelled it, I got smacked- And I wasn't even remotely drunk!"

I rolled my eyes, but she couldn't see because I was still face-down into my pillow.

"My father told me I was going to turn into a harlot or something, and that I should be ashamed of myself," she went on. "Hypocrites- Like my mother doesn't drink herself silly every day of her life."

Turning to look at her, I said, "It was illegal then, Vera," as if trying to offer some kind of pathetic excuse as to why her parents had reprimanded her, and mine hadn't reprimanded me.

She rolled her eyes a little, "As if that's really what my parents cared about."

I swallowed, my throat thick and dry.

"Your parents _never_ yell at you," she said, sounding incredulous and a little annoyed. "They yell at Stanley and Charles, but never at you."

I didn't say anything.

"I wish I had other siblings, so I could be the favorite," she said wistfully.

Though she wasn't necessarily trying to be mean or rude- this was Vera, after all, she had no concept of the difference between rude or honest- it came off that way, and I turned, snapping, "Are you here to lecture me? Or was there some other reason?"

She gave me a look that pointed out my impatience, and said, "I was going to see if you wanted to go to Lindy's, but it seems your incapicated." She smirked a little, "Call me when you're able-bodied again," and left the room.

She was my best friend, but she could be just as much of a brat as I could.

As I heard the door close downstairs, I let my body sink back into my bed. A groan pushed itself up my throat and made my head ache even more. Cringing, I buried my face deeper into my pillow, wanting to disappear into the foldings and trappings of my bed. The world was too bright and loud and nauseating for existence.

It was when I was laying there, trying to go back to sleep, feeling miserable and sick, that I vowed to never even have a sip of alcohol again.

* * *

In March, the Enabling Act was passed, and Adolf Hitler became dictator of Germany. Boycotts and rebellions followed that spring. Europe began turning over, readying itself for turmoil and change. But in Rochester, we were oblivious and unaffected. The spring of 1933 found me attending handfuls of parties and dinners, on the arms of lawyers' sons or bankers' brothers, and it never occurred to me that there was a world outside of that. Some strangely mustached man in Europe meant absolutely nothing to me, and I was blissfully ignorant. Young bachelors and pretty dresses danced before my eyes, and that's all that I cared about.

One party in particular was one that I all but salivated over, months before its preparation had even begun.

The Lavender Ball was an annual dance, held at the Nalick and King Club, in the city center of Rochester. It was formal and elegant, and Vera and I had dreamed of going there ever since we could remember. You had to be at least seventeen to attend, you had to have an appropriate date, you had to be dressed exceptionally, and you had to be on a list, concocted by the Delano Ladies Society of Charitable and Worthy Causes.

The ball was held in order to raise money for the care of young or orphaned children in local hospitals, but that was just a footnote.

Three weeks before the Lavender Ball, in April, I found out through Corinne- whose aunt was a member of the Delano Ladies Society- that my name was on the list of intended invitees.

"You have to go!" an increasingly pregnant Vera commanded one day, as we sat around in her living room. She had her feet up, her stomach swollen like an insanely overgrown melon, and she was munching on cookies without stopping. "You have to go, and you have to tell me everything about it!"

I fiddled with the pearl necklace I was wearing, saying, "Vera, you have to go too!"

"I'm not on the Delano list, and you know it," she said, picking out the chocolate chips of a cookie and dropping them into her mouth. "Not in the condition I'm in."

Though I knew this was true, I made a face, saying, "I wish we could both go though- It's _the_ Lavender Ball!"

"I know!" she sounded a little wistful. "But you'll go and you'll look amazing and you'll have some wonderful gentleman on your arm, and you'll tell me everything!"

I smiled at her, glowing at the very images she was offering me.

Vera looked up from her chocolate chip cookies and asked, "Who _are_ you going to go with?"

I had no idea.

* * *

There were the usual candidates, of course- past dates and smitten admirerers- but I wasn't interested in showing up with any of them. This was the _Lavender Ball_. I couldn't just go with the boy next door. No. I wanted someone impressive- someone handsome and sophisticated- someone new, and worth all the other girls' envy. But I couldn't seem to find anyone that seemed perfectly appropriate.

"Well, you can't be _that_ particular, Rosalie," Mother said from over her knitting, one night while we were all sitting around the living room.

I felt an irritation towards my mother, and I replied with, "I'm not being particular- I just don't want to go with _any_one."

"You're going to have to go with _some_one," she didn't look at me as she said it, she kept her eyes on her knitting.

I rolled my eyes because she wasn't looking and muttered, "Obviously."

"Doesn't Vera's Patrick have any carpenter friends for you?" she said snidely- a jab at Vera's decisions, not a real suggestion.

Father- who had been listening to the radio with Stanley and Charles- turned to us and gently chided my mother with a surprised: "Jane."

She shrugged.

"Are you trying to criticize Vera?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

She only shrugged again, saying, "To each his own."

"I know you don't approve of Patrick being a carpenter, but it's really none of your business," I said, my words bordering on fierce.

My mother looked up at me and gave me a shocked glance of the eyes.

"It's not," I said, standing my ground.

With her knitting stilled, she stared at me for a moment before saying, "I would hope I raised you better than that, Rosalie."

Was she talking about me standing up to her? Or me defending Vera's husband's occupation?

I did not know.

"Patrick's a good person," I replied. And he was. Maybe I didn't agree with the fact that Vera didn't mind he was a carpenter- and maybe I thought he should find a more suitable job- but he was still a good person- the best husband for Vera. No jealousy could blind me to that. So I defended both of my friends. "You wouldn't know that though, since you don't know either of them."

Mother snorted silently, saying, "I know enough to know that the Goodchilds made a mistake in allowing Vera to marry him."

"Why?" I demanded, the word shooting out like a bullet the moment she ended her sentence.

"Because."

I narrowed my eyes, "Because _why_?"

"I don't need to explain myself to you, Rosalie," she replied, raising her voice.

"Because there _is_ no explanation- because it wasn't a mistake that they got married," I almost shouted, sitting on the edge of my seat. At this point, Stanley and Charles were both watching the exchange. I wanted to lash out at her and bring up her jealousy- her anger that Vera had married before me and had gotten all the attention. But I couldn't. I would be throwing myself 'under the bus,' as it were. So I brought something else up. "You just can't stand the fact that Mrs. Goodchild is getting more attention because Vera got married- and now she's having a baby."

By then, my mother's face was red. And my father was too shocked that I was talking back to respond.

"Rosalie-"

"Don't deny it-"

My father finally came to, shouting, "Rosalie!"

I knew better than to cross the line when he used _that_ voice.

"That's enough," he said, his voice softer.

My mother stared at me, but I averted my eyes to the floor.

Clearing his throat- because this was uncomfortable, he had never really had to yell at me before- he said, "Apologize to your mother."

I didn't say anything. My pride wouldn't allow it.

"Apologize," he reiterated sternly.

"I apologize," I said bitterly, speaking through my teeth.

My mother just continued to stare at me, angry- wounded.

The room fell silent, and finally, the boys and my father returned to listening to their radio program, but my mother and I were silent.

After a moment, I left the room without asking to be excused.

When I entered bedroom, I slammed the door and ripped back the curtains on my windows.

Staring outside silently, I found that I was shaking in anger.

What was it about my mother's words that had bothered me most? Was it the fact that she had said Vera's wedding was a mistake? Did I feel that I needed to defend my best friend? Or was it the fact that she so callously debased Patrick, without even knowing him? Truthfully, I think it was a little bit of each- and at the time, that's what I believed- wholeheartedly. But now- when I look back on it, I think it might have been something else too. Mother had turned her nose up at Patrick, just because he was a carpenter, and that angered me because I knew he was a good person- funny, smart, loyal, and protective of his friends and loved-ones. But, hadn't I done the same thing when Vera first liked him? I pointed out the fact that his father was only a carpenter. And what were the first words out of my mouth when I heard that they were engaged? _Vera, he's only a carpenter_. It still made me wince. It _still_ makes me wince- to this day. And I know now. I had yelled so passionately- so fiercely- at my mother, because I was angry with myself- for things that were embedded into my personality- for the shallow attitudes and harsh prejudices they had instilled in me.

* * *

"Eliza Firth is actually wearing lavender."

I turned from where I was standing with Corinne, Charlotte Achre, and our dates, Max Lucian, Richard Barnum, and my date, Donald Demaray- not the catch I had been hoping for, but still impressive- and I saw the pale, red-head standing across the room, ostentatiously flirting with one of her father's friends. She was dressed in a lavender-colored crepe dress that ran straight down to the floor and clashed with her pale, pale skin color. It was clingy and tight, and extremely inappropriate for the Lavender Ball. Not only that, but everyone knew it was a faux-pas to wear anything purple to the event- that had always been the case.

"She's just doing it for attention," Charlotte scoffed.

The boys weren't paying attention- they were talking about their experiences with card games gone bad- so I turned from them and rolled my eyes a little over Eliza Firth's grasp for attention.

Corinne looked away from Eliza, and turned into Charlotte, a look of devious secrecy on her face. She said, "You know Eliza's friend, Amy Marvel?"

Charlotte nodded eagerly, waiting for the gossip like a thirsty dog waiting to lap up some water. I thought of the girl she was talking about. Amy was a short and thin girl, she was pretty though, with fine features, flowing chestnut hair, and big, hazel eyes. She must have been only a year or two younger than us, but we weren't friends with her. Her father owned a printing company in New York City and they were sickeningly wealthy, so Amy was tutored at home. She was only allowed out to attend the most prestigious of parties and the most elegant of dinners. Vera and I had spent many an afternoon bashing the girl for being short and snobby, when, really, it was her stature we envied.

Glancing around the room, I realized that Amy wasn't at the Lavender Ball, an event she normally would have attended.

I met Corinne's eyes, acknowledging that I knew who she was talking about, and she continued, "You know she's been sent away then?"

Charlotte gasped loudly, but the boys were too wrapped up in their discussion to notice.

Relishing the attention she was receiving, Corinne nodded with satisfaction and said, "Yes. And you know why she was sent away?"

I leaned away from her nonchalantly, making it obvious to her that she had no power over me because of gossip- but really, I was yearning to know why Amy Marvel had been sent away.

"Why? Why?" Charlotte demanded. "Cor, you can't keep us in the dark!"

I sipped at my punch coolly, as if I couldn't care less.

Waiting a beat, hoping to bring about more suspense, Corinne finally said, "She's got a fatal disease- She was sent to California because the climate's milder."

It took quite a bit of refrain for me to keep my eyes from widening and my jaw dropping.

"No!" Charlotte gasped.

Corinne nodded appreciatively.

In my mind's eye, I saw Amy. Small, fragile, doe-eyed and sheltered. I thought of her perfect, perfect life being marred shatteringly by a life-threatening illness. A pit rose quickly, from my stomach into my throat, and I swallowed. I thought of Warren, stabbed in New York City, dying before his life was lived. But Amy- Amy knew she could die young, was that different? Was it different to expect death and to wait for it, to fear its presence and ready yourself for its arrival?

"But you can not tell a soul!" Corinne told us, her eyes glittering with the scandal of it all.

Charlotte put her hand up, as if vowing to, and I just nodded faintly.

"I thought we were at a ball!" Max said excitedly, cutting into our silence. He swept Corinne toward the dance floor, and Charlotte twirled away with Richard.

Donald shyly asked, "Would you like to dance, Rosalie?"

I nodded, and allowed him to take my hand and guide me to the floor. Dancing would distract me, dancing was safe and fun.

But somehow, Corinne had put a damper on the whole of the Lavender Ball for me.

* * *

"That girl really needs to have her lips sewn shut!"

I knotted my eyebrows at Vera as she turned from me and continued the cooking she was doing at her stove. Even though Corinne had said that Charlotte and I could not tell a soul, I hadn't included Vera in that equation. Besides, I had been much too excited to share the gossip- after the initial shock and anxiety over it had worn off, that is- to keep it all to myself. So, the following day, as Vera prepared dinner for Patrick and herself, ambling around her kitchen with a very rounded belly, I had told her.

Confused, I said, "What-"

"Corinne," she replied, turning around with a wooden spoon poised in her hand, as if she was ready to strike. "She can't bear to _not_ spread the gossip of Rochester."

I looked into the tea cup in my hands, a little embarrassed that I had shared the piece of information too.

"And to make matters worse, she can't even get the story right," Vera turned away from me again, laughing, as if she couldn't believe how foolish some people could be.

As she stirred away at her chicken broth, I asked, "What do you mean? Amy Marvel doesn't have a fatal illness?"

Vera suddenly turned back to me again, laughing genuinely now, looking surprised, "You didn't actually believe Corinne, did you?"

I didn't respond.

"Of course Amy Marvel doesn't have a deadly illness," Vera rolled her eyes a little.

Faintly shaking my head, I asked, "Then why did Corinne say that?"

"Amy Marvel got sent to live with her grandparents in Boston," she clarified.

"Why?"

She set the wooden spoon down on the counter and turned to me, looking sad and regretful. It almost seemed like she didn't want to tell me why Amy went away.

I grew impatient, and I coaxed her by saying, "Vera, it's me- I'm not going to tell anyone."

And I was being honest.

She sighed, "The only reason I know is because Patrick works with one of the guys who found her-"

"Vera."

She looked at me, measuring my face for a moment, and then sighed and said, "A couple of men found her on their way home late one night." She only met my eyes for a minute, before looking away and continuing, "She was crying and shaking on the sidewalk- with bruises and scrapes all over her."

My breath caught in my throat.

"She even had a broken wrist," Vera said quietly, shaking her head. "Someone had beaten her and- and tried to force themselves on her."

Before I could stop it, my shaking hand flew to my mouth and my eyes widened.

Swallowing, I managed to whisper, "What?"

I felt a creeping anxiety and shame for this girl. Beaten and- I grimaced as I thought of what could have happened to her further. The pain and the embarrassment. If anyone found out- and people obviously had- she would be ruined. Who would marry her? Who would marry her with that knowledge in mind? She was going to become a social leper- and suddenly I knew why her parents had sent her away. I shook my head, as if I couldn't endure thinking about such a thing. I knew the feel of what 'forcing themselves upon her meant' but, honestly, I didn't know the details of that part of life. I had an idea, but how could I know for sure? People didn't talk about things like that. And the fact that this had happened to Amy Marvel- it made my frown deepen. This girl who I had so envied and openly bashed with my best friend- she was all but ruined.

"Whoever it was didn't manage to-" she shook her head. "She fought him too hard- and he got angry and fought back."

My eyes were burning, but there were no tears. I just felt ashamed for her- and a little confused.

Vera licked her lips nervously, saying, "He eventually gave up and threw her out on the street, I guess."

"Who did it?" I managed to ask, my voice clotted with embarrassment and anxiety.

Shrugging, and shaking her head angrily, she replied, "They don't know."

"But what about Amy?" I offered, regaining some composure with my anger and contempt. "Can't she tell them who it was?"

"Apparently she wouldn't talk to anyone about it," Vera replied.

We descended into silence and I stared at the grains of the table before me, feeling disgusted and upset by what I had learned.

I didn't know that the villain nobody could discover, was someone my existence would become irreversibly changed by.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yeah, three guesses who that jerk was.


	16. Differences of Opinion

**Author's Note:** Sorry it's taken a month to update. I've been so busy and swamped with school and attempting to have something of a social life.... But I've had the week off and so I've been writing and reading and being lazy and it's been wonderful. I'm glad the last chapter was received well, and that everyone seems to be liking where the story's going (also, very glad that Angeliss didn't, in fact, fall off the face of the planet). You'll be meeting Royce in just a few chapters, and that means everything's going to start to fall apart (or together, depending on how you look at it). Hope everyone likes chapter fifteen!

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen  
Differences of Opinion  
June 23, 1933-August 18, 1933**

* * *

Francesco's was hot and loud in the early June evening. Though the windows in the front had been thrown open, we were sitting in the back of the restaurant- Father in a suit, Charles and Stanley in shirts and tailored pants, and Mother, Grandmother Hale, and me in some of our more casual Sunday dresses- and it was stifling. Not only was it excruciatingly warm and humid outside for June, but Francesco's was unbearably crowded and- I noticed for the first time- too small for my liking. It seemed that no one in Rochester wanted to be at home cooking, or sitting in their houses waiting for their meals to be cooked for them, so they had decided to dine out. And had decided to dine at Francesco's, and Francesco's alone. There was a wait to get a table- one that we had had to sit through for forty minutes- and so everything was a little rushed and impatient. It baffled me that anyone would want to eat here on such a stifling day. Had I been given the choice, I would have decided to stay home, but it was Charles's fifteenth birthday and Grandmother Hale was only in from her house in Maine for a week, so we were all making sacrifices.

"What do you think you're going to get, Charles?" Father asked.

I looked over at my brother and absently fanned at myself with my own menu. Charles's hair was sticking up in the front, and he had an angry blemish sprouting at the corner of his nose. I curled my lip at it and continued to fan myself, wishing I had a clip to put my hair back. The heat was just getting worse and worse as we sat there, and my thick waves of hair were not making matters any easier.

"Get the manicotti," a nine-year-old Stanley urged. "We can go halvsies!"

Charles looked across the table at Stanley as if he was a leech, saying, "Go halvsies with yourself!"

I rolled my eyes.

"Charles, let your brother be," Mother said, delicately holding her menu away from her eyes as she looked at her sons. "Stanley, don't say 'halvsies.'"

"Why not?" he asked, sticking his finger in his water glass, and then sucking on it.

I swatted his hand out of his mouth and he looked at me, as if to ask, 'What gives?'

Mother returned to her menu, saying, "It's slang."

Giving me a dirty look, Stanley kicked at his chair's legs, looking sullen and grumpy.

"Rosalie, I understand one of your good friends is due to have a baby sometime soon," Grandmother said.

I lowered my glass of lemonade from my lips and swallowed delicately, suppressing the urge to give my mother a dirty look. This was Grandmother's first day back in Rochester and she was staying with us, and I knew that while I was getting ready that afternoon, my mother had mentioned Vera's pregnancy to my busybody of a Grandmother.

"Yes, that's right," I replied, watching my wrinkled and sagging grandmother with wary eyes. Her back was hunched a little, and she was leaning against the table with veiny arms and hands that were becoming gnarled with age. She had been so beautiful in her heyday- I knew, because I had seen a picture or two. It made me sincerely hope I wouldn't age so poorly.

Heh, if I had only known.

Grandmother smiled her polite, chapped-lip smile, and said, "Isn't that lovely?" she looked at me with fading blue eyes. "And what about you? Have you got any fine gentlemen in line for your hand?"

This made Stanley lean back in his chair and laugh out loud.

I shot him a murderous look, but he didn't stop giggling.

"Stanley, sit up," Mother snapped.

He heard the impatience in her voice- having more to do with her jealousy over Vera's starting her family, than at my brother's petulance- and he sat up, pressing his lips together to keep himself from laughing.

"No, not today-"

Mother cut me off, "Oh, there are gentlemen in line- Rosalie just won't give them the time of day."

Did she mean the dopes who drooled after me when I walked into town? Could she have possibly been referring to the sad boys who were poor or pathetic- the ones who would marry me in a heartbeat, but the ones I was repulsed by?

"The girl has her standards," Father said calmly, still looking over his menu.

Stanley let out a guffaw of laughter, and Father shot him a warning glare. He immediately sobered up.

"That's good," Grandmother insisted, patting my hand with her skeletal one. "You can't say yes to the first John or Jack that knocks."

I suddenly wanted to be very far away- and it had nothing to do with the heat or the atmosphere of Francesco's. My whole family was just too much for me to deal with- too annoying and too suffocating.

Instead of fleeing the restaurant though, I clamped my jaw shut, offered my grandmother a pleasant smile, and remained silent until the waiter came to take our order.

* * *

"Guess where Will is."

I slowly flipped a page in the Sears' catalog, and said, "First, tell me if I care or not."

As the words left my mouth- in all their sarcastic and acidic glory- Vera picked up a button and chucked it at me. It hit a bit of my collarbone, stinging a little. Sitting up, the magazine slid from my lap and crashed to the floor. "Ouch!" I said loudly, and threw Vera a dirty look. Grabbing the button from where it had landed in my lap, I tossed it back, aiming for her face. It sailed over her head and clinked to the wooden floor. She raised an eyebrow at me.

"What is the matter with you?" I demanded, picking up the catalog again and righting myself on the armchair. "Is that how you're going to discipline your child?"

She gave me a dirty look, saying, "Stop being a moody little wench or I'll kick you out- and do you really want to go spend your afternoon with Mummy and Mrs. Falkern while they talk about how I'm having a baby?"

I glared at her, because she was right. If I left her house or got kicked out, I'd have to endure talk of nappies and cradles all afternoon- and discussions on how Vera wasn't ready to have children.

No. Thank you just the same.

"Now, guess where Will is."

Sighing heavily, I played along, "Europe?"

"No."

"I give up," I said, eyeing a picture of a large white house printed on the page in front of me.

Vera sounded impatient, "Rosalie, you only guessed once."

"Africa."

"More specific," she pressed, having abandoned the mending she was doing on the sofa. It lay in a heap on her lap, tucked over the enormous mound of belly she now had.

I didn't want to talk about Will or his world travels- I didn't care if he was in London, Dublin, or Bombay- so long as I didn't have to talk to him or see his self-righteous mug in Rochester.

Leaning my chin on the heel of my hand, I said, "Vere, I don't want to play this game."

Sighing, as if I had ruined all of her fun, Vera said, "He's in Egypt- Cairo! He's joined an expedition to dig in a _tomb_!"

"He should move in with Aunt Kate and Uncle Gard," I said dryly, flipping to another page.

Though I acted as if I didn't care- as if the topic of Will and his travels were just boring and dry to me- it wasn't like that. I missed him sometimes, like when I felt like having a conversation about anything existential (not that that was often though) or when I wanted to hear about a really good book without having to read it. And hearing that he was in Alaska or Chile made me jealous. Though the things I wanted most in the world were a husband, a house, and a family, I sometimes wished I could see the world- the wonders and the cultures and the ancient marvels- the way Will and my aunt were seeing it. I felt like I was missing out sometimes and I didn't like that feeling.

Vera went back to her mending, saying, "He told Patrick in his letter that they could possibly find a missing pharaoh of the early Egyptian dynasties."

"Please," I muttered, getting annoyed. "Will couldn't even find his own shoes if he was distracted enough."

"Rosalie."

I looked up and saw Vera sending me one of her understanding and reprimanding stares- the kind that made me feel like she was my mother.

Looking back at the catalog, I ignored her.

"You could write to him- I'm sure he'd love to hear from you."

I snorted.

"Rosalie, why can't you two just be friends?" she countered.

I flipped to another page, hardly seeing what was in front of me anymore. I muttered, "Will's got enough pharaoh friends now-"

"Rosalie!" she scolded. "I'm being serious."

"I don't want to be friends with him, Vera," I said. "That's it."

She sighed.

I know she would have started in again, only the front door opened and Patrick clomped into the foyer.

"Hello?" he called.

"We're in here, Patrick," she called back, lazily dropping her mending into the basket at her feet.

Patrick entered the living room, dressed in his work clothes- jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt- and smiled at us. After leaning in and kissing Vera on the cheek, he straightened up and asked, "What have you girls been up to?"

"Just reading and talking," Vera said, not taking her eyes off Patrick once. "Oh! Rosalie found the most beautiful canopy for the cradle!"

Patrick seemed a little uninterested as he sat down on the couch beside Vera, but he politely said, "Oh?"

Vera scanned her eyes across the table and along the floor, "Where's that catalog?" she muttered.

"I think it might still be in the kitchen," I said. I could see that Patrick was about to offer to get it for us- being the gentlemen that he was- but he really looked tired, and it would take Vera about five minutes to actually get up off the couch, so I stood, announcing, "I'll get it."

It didn't even take a half a minute to get to the kitchen, but once I got there, I had to root around for the magazine we had been looking through. I was sure I had left it on the kitchen table when we had relocated from drinking tea to lounging around in the living room, but it wasn't there. So I looked around for a few minutes, checking on the chairs and even in the drawer where I knew Vera kept letters and papers and things. It wasn't there. I finally found it on the little end-table, outside of the kitchen, in the hall, and I scooped it up.

Just as I was about to reenter the living room- still half-hidden in the adjoining hallway- I stopped. Vera and Patrick were huddled close together. Patrick had his hand gently placed on Vera's rounded belly, and she had her hand on top of his own fingers. They were both smiling softly and leaning into one another.

"We're really going to have a baby," Patrick whispered to her, low enough that he thought I couldn't hear because they thought I was still in the kitchen. "Soon." He sounded as if he was in awe- as if he couldn't wait for their baby to arrive in a month or so.

Vera turned to Patrick, beaming, and kissed him. They kissed for a long moment- nothing heated or intense- but a kiss that was sweet and earnest.

Upon seeing this- and not seeing them break apart- I felt the intrusion seep under my skin, and I turned, quietly creeping back to the kitchen.

I stood beside the stove for a moment, and then loudly walked back to the living room.

With the warning of my footfalls, Patrick and Vera were no longer kissing when I entered the room, but the broken privacy was still there for me. I could feel it hanging all around me, and shortly after we showed Patrick the canopy we had found, I made an excuse and left.

As I walked home I thought about it.

Something about the fact that Vera and Patrick were so close bothered me. I wondered if it was because I was angry- because I thought I was closest to Vera and I was now finding out with my own eyes that that wasn't the case. Patrick was closer to her now, and I was only just realizing it. Because of this I felt a little anger towards Vera's husband, but also a little jealousy. He was stealing my best friend. I thought Vera and I had no secrets, but I realized then that she had a whole world she didn't share with me. Whereas, I didn't have anything that I had to keep from her, I felt like she just didn't want to share this part of her life with me, and it made me angry. I also realized that I was jealous of her relationship with Patrick. I wanted a husband of my own- a husband to just cuddle with and talk to- someone who I could be completely open and honest with- a relationship that was just as perfect as Patrick and Vera's, if not a little more elegant.

* * *

A scream erupted within the house and I dropped the dress I was about to put onto a hanger in my wardrobe.

I knew the scream belonged to Stanley, and I knew that Cooky and Mother were out shopping, Charles was at a friend's house, and father was at work, so I ran from my room and barged into his. He was lying on the floor, holding his elbow and howling like some kind of animal. I rushed over to him and knelt at his side, grabbing at his arm and pulling it away from the one he was holding.

"Stanley- Stanley!" I shouted over his voice. "Stanley, stop it!"

He shrieked, "It hurts!"

"What hurts?" I demanded of him, looking him over. "What happened?"

He held out his elbow to me, and I saw the large scrape he had garnered. It was bleeding a little, but it was mostly red and angry-looking.

Sighing, I helped him to his feet and lead him to the bathroom.

When we were in the bathroom, I sat him down on the toilet.

"I want ma," he said, blubbering fat tears and allowing his face to redden harshly. "I want Mother or Cooky!"

I grabbed a washcloth from the closet and ran it under the hot water, saying, "You'll have to make due with me."

"No!" he hollered. "You don't know how to do it!"

I grabbed his arm but he struggled against me, "Stanley!" I shouted. "Stop! I have to clean it!"

"It hurts!"

"Yes, well, that's going to happen," I said, gently rubbing his scrape with the hot cloth.

He screamed at the top of his lungs.

Startled, I pulled away from him, shouting, "Stanley!"

"You're making it worse, Rosalie!" he yelled back.

"If you don't let me wash it, you'll get sick and your arm will fall off," I said. "So just let me clean it a little until Cooky can bandage it when she comes home."

He looked at me skeptically, saying, "My arm will _not_ fall off."

"Suit yourself-" I was about to get up and leave the room, but he stopped me.

Sighing, he said, "Just wash it quickly."

I knelt in front of him again and took his arm in my hand, gently running the now-cool towel over his scrape.

"How'd you do this, anyway?" I asked.

He frowned, "I was pretending I was a cowboy in my room and when I jumped off the bed I knocked my arm on the stupid table."

I stood and ran the towel under the hot water again, putting a little soap on it as well, saying, "Well, you're not supposed to jump on your bed."

He glowered at me, "When Cooky fixes my boos, she sings me songs and makes me feel better." Wrinkling his nose at me as I knelt before him again, he said, "You're no good at it." I touched the towel- with the soap on it- to his elbow, and he screamed, ripping himself away from me.

"Stanley! It's going to hurt!" I held his skinny body in place.

"I want Cooky! You're not good at it!"

At this point, I didn't care if his arm _did_ fall off, he was being too much trouble. I stood up and chucked the towel in the sink, angrily saying, "Fine. You can wait until Mother and Cooky get home," and I left him in the bathroom.

"You could have at least tried to _sing_!" he called after me, but I just slammed my door on his words.

At the time, I was sure I was angry with him because he was being difficult and annoying- comparing me to Cooky and telling me I wasn't good at helping him with his scrape. But looking back on it, I sometimes wonder if it was because he made me nervous that I wouldn't be good at treating my own children's scrapes one day. If I couldn't help my little brother- even a little- could I help someone that I was completely responsible for? Someone who depended solely on me? Thinking about it- questioning my own ability- made me angry and nervous. But I was sure this was because of Stanley's attitude and my short temper and impatience.

I briefly wondered if Vera would be any good at mending her child's injuries, before pushing any ideas of motherhood and children out of my head all together.

* * *

"Rosalie, will you go get me some popcorn?"

I ignored Vera as she whispered to me in the semidarkness of the movie theater.

We had gone to the movie because August had been busy and hectic, and we hadn't been able to see much of one another. So, on August eighteenth, we had put aside the night for dinner at Patrick and Vera's, and then a movie- just the two of us. But ever since the shorts had started, she was fidgeting and shoveling all of the popcorn into her mouth. When she finished her own bag, she started in on mine, and I let her, if only to keep her still and shut her up. But she finished the second personal box within moments, and had gotten restless again.

Tugging on my sleeve, she said, "Rosalie, please."

I turned to her harshly and said, "Vera, I'm trying to watch the movie- go get it yourself."

"Rose, the show will be over before I even get out of my chair," she said- and though it was an exaggeration, it was somewhat fair. Her stomach was impossibly huge now, and she had trouble moving and sitting for too long because she usually got stuck- like a turtle on its back- and I was surprised that she had even agreed to the movie in the first place.

The audience laughed around us, but I didn't know what was so funny because I couldn't pay attention to the film.

I tried to focus on the screen.

"Rosalie," she complained, "I'm starving."

"How could you possibly be starving?" I hissed back. "You just ate two bags of popcorn!"

Someone in the row behind us went, "Shhhhh!"

"I'm eating for two!" she complained fiercely.

My irritation reached its peak, and I didn't even say anything, only rose suddenly- and in a huff- and left the theater, practically stomping out into the lobby.

"What can I get you, doll?" the vendor asked me, flashing me a smile and eyeing me up.

I was too annoyed with Vera for making me get her popcorn to even notice the man's appreciative look. I just said, "One popcorn."

He scooped a generous amount of popcorn into a bag and then handed it to me, saying, "Five cents."

I looked up at him, pausing on my way to open my purse, asking, "It was ten cents just before."

"For you?" he smiled. "Five cents."

He was a _popcorn vendor_.

I didn't return his smile- instead, I handed him ten cents, said, "Keep the change," and went back into the theater.

When I reached Vera I shoved the bag at her and sat down, hissing, "You owe me ten cents."

"Rosalie," she said, and she sounded weird.

I scoffed, not even looking at her, "Are you going to try to get out of paying me back? Just because you're 'eating for two?'"

"No- Rosalie, I-"

"It doesn't matter," I cut her off, trying to focus on Katharine Hepburn on the screen. "We'll figure it out after the movie."

She pinched me. Hard.

"Ow!" I yelped, which elicited a forced sigh from someone behind us. "What is your problem?"

When I looked over, I could see that she looked different. Somehow, her face was contorted- but only marginally so- and she looked to be breathing carefully.

I leaned closer to her- forgetting my vendetta- and put a hand on her arm, "Vera?"

"I don't feel right," she said.

"What is it?" I asked, alarmed. I noticed that she had dropped the bag of popcorn on the floor. "Is it the baby?"

She winced in pain, and I could feel her arm tense under my hand as she clenched the arm of her chair.

"Vera," I said sternly, no longer speaking low. "Talk to me."

She spoke through her teeth, saying, "It hurts."

"What hurts?"

"The baby-" she cut herself off and bit her lip.

I looked around frantically, and then asked, "What should I do- Do you want to go home- to the hospital?"

"Shhhh!" the same person behind us sounded.

Turning violently in my seat, I glared at the middle-aged man and snapped, "Would you shut up? Can't you see my friend's in _pain_?"

He looked aghast, but he retorted with, "Well, then, maybe you and your friend should _leave_."

"Maybe you should mind your own business!" I replied, feeling a fiery determination to defend Vera and myself- otherwise I would have never spoken to someone my father's age in such a way.

Vera took in a breath through her teeth beside me.

Turning back to her I asked, "Vera, can you walk?"

After a beat, she nodded.

"Come on, let's go out to the lobby- We'll call Patrick to come get us," I said, and I stood, helping her up with me.

She waddled a little alongside me, clenching my hand and regaining her strength in intervals. When we reached the lobby she seemed okay, but then she cried out a little bit and nearly collapsed against me. I had no idea what to do, and I was scared out of my mind. What if something was wrong with her? What if I couldn't get her the help she needed?

Spotting the popcorn vendor who had offered to sell me my popcorn cheap, I caught his attention and asked, "Can you get us a chair?"

He took one look at Vera, clenching her teeth, her face contorted and red, and snapped into action immediately.

Within a minute she was sitting in a chair, holding her stomach and breathing raggedly.

The popcorn vendor stood over us as I stared at my friend, feeling so immature in a situation that demanded care and attention.

Seeing Vera in such pain- without any directions to give me- I made a decision. Snapping at the popcorn vendor, I shouted, "Call an ambulance!"

He ran across the lobby and did as he was told.

By then, we had attracted a bit of a crowd, and the manager had come out to ask us what was going on.

"My friend- She's not feeling well," I said, wanting to pull at my hair from nerves.

The man took one look at Vera's stomach and paled- as if the idea of a sick pregnant woman in his lobby was too much to bear.

"The ambulance is on its way," the popcorn vendor said upon his return.

"Vera," I said, kneeling beside her. "Everything's going to be fine- it'll be fine."

She breathed deeply, exhaling slowly, trying to nod to herself, and to agree with me.

But from the look of pain on her face, and the way she was holding her stomach- I only hoped I was right.

* * *


	17. Modus Operandi

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen  
Modus Operandi  
August 18, 1933-September 2, 1933**

* * *

When we arrived at the hospital they immediately put Vera in a wheelchair and wheeled her away to put her under observation and have her examined. But they wouldn't let me come with her. I tried telling the nurses that I was Vera's best friend, that I was the one who had called the ambulance, but nobody seemed to care. They told me I could wait in the waiting room and that they would keep me posted, but they said it all in supercilious voices. My attitude turned sour and I gave the nurses all scathing looks that made them turn tail and disappear down their corridors. I wanted to spew out hot, ugly words at them for not letting me stay with my friend when she was in such pain, but I knew Mother wouldn't approve, so I dug my nails into my palm and started pacing.

There was a built-in desk in the wall, and behind this sat a nurse who was looking down at something and glancing at me in intervals. Striding over to her, I demanded, "Do you have a telephone?"

She smiled at me with a look of self-importance and said, "I'm sorry Miss, the telephone is only for personnel-"

"Let me file something and I'll _be_ personnel," I replied, wanting to ring her neck. "I'll even pay you- just let me use the telephone."

This seemed to make her warm up to me and she leaned forward, saying, "Twenty-five cents."

Twenty-five cents? For a telephone call? I sometimes forgot how hard everyone else was hit by the Depression.

"Two calls," I countered.

She hesitated, looked around, and then lifted the clunky black phone onto the top of the desk and sternly said, "Only two."

After handing the woman her money, I dialed Vera's house number and tapped my fingernails against the countertop as I waited for an answer.

"Come on," I muttered to myself. "Come on, answer-"

"Hello?"

A whoosh of relief filled me, and I quickly said, "Patrick! It's Rosalie."

"Rosalie?" he reiterated. "Where are you calling from? What is it?"

Evidently he could hear the anxiety in my voice, because he sounded worried too.

I replied, "I'm at the hospital- Vera said she didn't feel right at the movie and she was in a lot of pain so we called an ambulance-"

"Is she okay?" he asked hurriedly. "What about the baby?"

I shook my head, "I don't know anything yet- They just wheeled her away from me," I shot the woman behind the desk a dirty look as I said this. "Just come down here as soon as you can."

"I'm leaving right now," he said quickly, and immediately hung up.

When I hung up, the woman made a reach for the telephone, but I grabbed the receiver and said, "I have one more call, ma'am," and I started dialing as she settled back into her seat, annoyed.

It didn't take long for someone to answer the phone when I called the house- it was very rare that our home was empty- but I was entirely disappointed when I found out it was my mother.

"Rosalie?" she said. "I thought you were at a movie with Vera."

"I'm at the hospital," I told her. "Vera wasn't feeling well."

Mother immediately asked, "Is it the baby?" but she didn't sound scared, just curious.

I rolled my eyes, saying, "I don't know. But, Mother, can you call the Goodchilds and tell them that Vera had to go to the hospital?"

"Of course, dear," she replied. "We'll see you shortly," and she hung up.

I don't think I ever said I wanted her to come to the hospital too though.

* * *

When a nurse finally returned to the waiting room, Patrick was already there. We sat together on one of the hard wooden benches- Patrick smoking with shaking hands, and me resisting the urge to bite my nails. As soon as the nurse walked in, we both shot up and stared at her expectantly. But she didn't even pay us any mind. Instead, she walked over to the woman behind the desk, and started talking to her in a low voice. Clenching my fists, I started pacing the room again, feeling restless and useless. Patrick sat down again and let out a shaky sigh, sitting on the edge of the bench, both of his legs jiggling on the balls of his antsy feet.

I reached the window, set into the wall next to the bench, and I stopped, looking outside through the blinds.

The sky was darkened now- as it was nearing half past nine in the evening- and the moon and stars were invisible through a thick cast of dark clouds. Though I couldn't feel it myself, I saw the trees swaying roughly outside, bent and rustled by a herd of strong winds. It had been unbearably humid and hot all day, so from the looks of it, a storm was coming to cool everything down. I listened as the first growl of thunder rumbled in the sky, just as the Goodchilds and my mother entered the waiting room.

"Is it a girl or a boy?" Mrs. Goodchild asked Patrick and I- we had obviously caught her in the middle of her nightly glass of whatever alcohol she could find.

"We don't know if she's even having the baby right now," I said. "She was just in pain- they won't tell us anything," I began to ring my hands, shooting a scathing look at the women at the desk yet again.

Mrs. Goodchild strode over to them and rapped the woman standing at the desk on the shoulder. As the nurse turned around, Vera's mother said, "I demand to know my daughter's current condition!"

My mother glanced at me, conveying her embarrassment over Mrs. Goodchild's behavior and brash words. I just turned my eyes away from her, refusing to agree- even if Vera's mother was being a little loud and obnoxious, as usual.

"And who is your daughter, ma'am?" the nurse asked through tight lips.

"Vera Goodchild-"

Patrick hurried over to them and corrected her, "Vera Weissman."

"And who are you, sir?"

"I'm her husband," he said nervously. "How is she? Is the baby all right?"

The nurse glanced at the woman behind the desk and then told the two, "I apologize, but I'm not authorized to give you any information-"

"Can you just tell us if she's all right?" I asked, hurrying over to them. The woman's words made me nervous and frantic- why couldn't they just tell us?

The woman looked at all of us and then looked around, whispering, "Mrs. Weissman is having a little difficulty-" we all tried to say something different, but she cut us off. "She's doing all right though, and is expected to pull through just fine. Now, that's all I can tell you."

She turned away from us, back to the woman behind the desk, and we all dragged ourselves over to the bench again, where Mother and Mr. Goodchild were standing.

"Come on Rosalie," Mother said, taking my arm. "Let's get on home."

I pulled away from her, surprised, saying, "No. Mother, I'm staying."

"Rosalie," she said, her voice low and her smile embarrassed. "This is a private event- for family-"

"But Rosalie _is_ family," Mrs. Goodchild cut in, putting an arm around my shoulders. "Vera wouldn't mind a bit if her closest friend was here- I'm sure she'd _want_ her here!"

My mother's lips grew thin, as her rule was compromised, and she said, "Yes, well, it's getting late and I think it best if we go home." She pulled me out from under Mrs. Goodchild's grasp, and held my arm firmly in her hand, "Rosalie can come back tomorrow."

"What if she has the baby before then?" I asked. "What if...." I didn't dare say what I was thinking. "I want to be here no matter what."

"Rosalie," my mother hissed, looking around nervously, wishing there wasn't an audience for this conflict. "This is not a negotiation."

I glared at her, trying to pull away, saying, "I know that."

"We're going home so the Goodchilds and Patrick can have their privacy," she said, trying to smile.

"Mrs. Hale, we really don't mind," Patrick stepped in now, sounding surprised.

Everyone clearly thought I was a part of Vera's family- they all _wanted_ me to be- all except my mother. She didn't want me to a be a part of that- didn't want me to be so close to Emma Goodchild's alcoholism and suffragist tales, didn't want me to be affiliated with a family who allowed their daughter to marry a carpenter, and then permitted her to have his child. Whereas, once upon a time, the Hales and the Goodchilds had gotten along and been close, vacationing and laughing together at block parties, things had changed. Mrs. Goodchild's taste for alcohol worsened, and they showed their true colors when they let her marry Patrick- according to my mother. And for these things, she couldn't forgive them. For these things, she wouldn't allow me to be a part of whatever was going to happen on August eighteenth- be it tragedy or blessing.

A flash of lightening lit up the waiting room, and thunder boomed with it.

With her blue-violet eyes searing into mine, she said, "Rosalie and I are going home. Now."

When she used that voice I knew I would be risking life and limb to disobey her. However, I did rip my arm out of her grip, turn away from her, and stride to the door on my own, caring little for what everyone said and thought about my petulance.

My mother wasn't letting me be a part of Vera's family, so I was going to treat her as if she wasn't a part of mine.

* * *

As thunder and lightening fought in intervals that night, I stayed up. How could I possibly go to sleep when I didn't know if Vera was okay- if her baby was all right? Though my parents had gone to bed when they usually retired, I stayed in my room, dressed in my nightgown and robe, watching the storm pulsing and dying outside my window. I was furious with my mother for doing what she had done, but I was also worried- almost too worried to be completely angry. A fear that I had never known before rampaged through me. Would Vera be okay? What if something happened to her? I knew in my heart that I didn't worry for her baby as much as I worried for her. She was my best friend, after all, and never before had I actually worried that I wouldn't have her. Never before had the thought crossed my mind; Vera could die.

With my heart thrumming in my chest, and my stomach churning with anxiety, I tried to breathe deeply. When that didn't work, and the fear became too much, I launched myself off of my bed and left the room.

Cooky was in the kitchen, stitching one of the many tears in Stanley's garments, sitting by the stove, making herself tea.

I hadn't expected her to be down there- though I had hoped- because it was later than she normally stayed up. But I was grateful for her presence, and I entered the kitchen meekly.

"Cooky?"

She looked up and her face wrinkled in concern, "Is that you Miss Rose?"

I came further into the kitchen and approached her, "I couldn't sleep."

"You come on over and sit with Cooky," she said with a smile, pulling up a chair beside the stove.

I sat down beside her and watched her fingers working methodically over Stanley's clothes, with the storm fading to a low rumble in the background.

"Are you thinking on Miss Vera?" she asked quietly.

I nodded.

"The time's about right," Cooky said. "This baby is just making it hard on her. Don't you worry about Miss Vera, she's as stubborn and as fiery as they come," she told me fondly. "She'll be just fine."

A sigh escaped my lips and I rested my chin in my hands.

"Trust Cooky, she knows," the old woman said with a smile.

I hoped she was right- hoped that Vera was strong and fiery enough to get through a difficult labor.

* * *

I didn't make a fuss the next morning when my mother insisted on coming to the hospital with me. I didn't talk to her on the way there, and I was stoic with her later on, but I didn't fight with her beforehand. Mrs. Goodchild had called our house earlier that morning, letting us know that Vera and the baby were both perfectly fine, and that we should come to the hospital whenever we wanted to see them. Of course, my mother insisted we sit down to breakfast and take our time. So, I broke apart some toast while she slowly sipped her tea and chatted with Father about current events, with me practically wanting to ring her neck. I was too anxious to get to the hospital as quickly as possible, and too excited to see Vera's baby to actually fight with her or insist we leave right away, so I just shot her annoyed looks from across the table, wishing I could just go on my own.

When we arrived though, and I laid eyes on the baby, I forgot all about my mother and her selfishness. Instead, I hurried over to Vera and stared down at the baby in her arms, feeling myself fall apart just a little bit at how adorable it was. It was impossibly small, with a layer of fine dark hair atop its head and half-opened blue eyes. I was embarrassed to find that I couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl- and worried because Mrs. Goodchild hadn't specified over the phone.

"Do you want to hold him?" Vera asked me with a wide smile.

Him. It was a little boy!

I instantly leapt away though, saying, "No-no!" afraid I would hurt him or break him or something. "I'm fine."

"It's okay, Rosalie," she smiled, understanding my nervousness. "He'll be fine."

"Really," I objected. "It's fine." I changed the subject quickly, saying, "Have you named him yet?"

Looking down at him adoringly, with an intense- almost palpable- wave of love passing between the baby and Vera, she said, "Henry Joseph Weissman."

I looked down at the little baby, with his impossibly tiny nose and eyes, his skin that looked petal-soft and perfect, his little fingers, wrapped into gentle fists, and his baby lips, pink and pursed. He was so adorable. I wanted to hold him myself and squeeze his cheeks, but I wasn't able-bodied around babies. I hadn't held a baby since Stanley was born, and I didn't feel at all confident about it. But Henry was adorable, and I knew I would have my chance to hold him again.

"Vera, he's beautiful," I said, ignoring the jealousy that was licking at the bottom of my stomach. "Really."

She beamed at me, and there was such pride there that I realized something. Vera and I were a part of two completely different worlds now- more so than before, even- and not only was I jealous of her, I was a little scared of what I was missing, and what would happen if I never got it.

* * *

"Rosalie, would you like to come with me to Mrs. Steel's?"

I looked over at my mother from where I was sitting in an armchair, reading a magazine. "No. Thank you."

She shrugged, "All right. I'll be home in an hour or so," and she turned from the doorway.

A moment later, I heard the front door open and slam shut, and then the house was silent. I tried to continue my reading, but I was feeling bored and restless all of a sudden, so I dropped the magazine onto the coffee table and sat back, staring into the space of the room. I only watched dust mites dancing in the sunlight falling in through the window for a moment, before I realized what I was doing and grew annoyed. A frustrated sigh escaped my lips and I stood up, walking the perimeter of the room with an annoyed agitation surging through my veins.

I was bored- as had become my modus operandi as of late- and I couldn't stand it anymore. With the winding down of summer came parties and trips to the lake, but suddenly I didn't want to go to those things- they didn't amuse me half as much anymore. I didn't want to attend another dinner party where I was seated next to someone's single cousin. I wouldn't admit how much, but I desperately wanted a husband- at least a prospective fiance- to love and talk to, to have on my arm and to accompany me when I went to all of my friends' parties. If that wasn't possible, I wanted to lounge around with my best friend, gossiping about the happenings of Rochester and going to lunches in town. I wanted to be able to spend time with my godson without the hassle and formality of other visitors around. But Vera hadn't invited me over since Henry's christening, and it was beginning to smart.

Deep down, I blamed Vera for my being bored, and I was beginning to think she was just being selfish and trying to keep me out of her perfect little life with her husband and her son- her family. I was beginning to feel like she didn't want her single, immature friend marring her wonderful little world, and it was getting to me.

Truthfully, I was sick of it- sick of being bored and sick of feeling as if their was this emptiness inside of me waiting to be filled. And if something wasn't done about it, I knew I would take it out on someone very soon- and I wouldn't hold myself responsible for any of my actions.

* * *

**Author's Note:** One more chapter until Royce....


	18. Another Turn

**Author's Note:** So, I'm a few chapters ahead of this, and I've just started writing Royce. Let me tell you something guys, it's weird. Wonderful, because I feel like I'm beginning to get into the nitty-gritty of Rosalie's life, but still weird. Hope you all like chapter seventeen. Royce is coming your way very soon.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen  
Another Turn  
September 2, 1933-September 30, 1933**

* * *

"I'm sorry, Rosalie," Vera said over the telephone, and she sounded physically strained- as if she was juggling while holding the receiver. "I didn't mean for it to be like this. Things have just been so busy- and taking care of Henry is just- it's a _lot_ of work."

The exhaustion in her voice was evident, and though I had been angry with her only minutes before, I suddenly felt a little bad for haranguing her with accusations of not making time for me.

Winding the cord of the telephone around my index finger, I asked, "Well, do you want me to come over and help you?" regretting the offer of my help even as I said the words.

What would helping entail? Changing diapers? Cleaning? Rocking a screaming infant? Mopping up baby vomit? I knew I wasn't suited for these things- didn't even _want_ to do any of these things, even for Vera and my godson- and I felt like shaking myself when I realized how foolish it was to offer my help to someone who sounded as if they desperately wanted it.

"Oh Rosalie, could you?"

Vera sounded so grateful and desperate that I couldn't bear to renege my offer. So, I said, "Of course. I'll be right over."

"Oh, Rose," she sighed. "You're a saint- really."

I preened under the compliment- I _was_ sacrificing myself up, after all- but modestly said, "It's nothing," and quickly said good-bye.

The walk over to Vera's was uncharacteristically short- no matter how long I tried to make it- and by the time I reached her front door, I hadn't managed to convince myself that I actually _wanted_ to help baby-sit and clean. If anything, I was dreading the thought of vomit and drool, and any thing else that could come out of a baby, even more than when I had left the house. All the things I remembered enduring when Stanley and Charles were babies- putrid smells and shrill screams- it all made me grimace as I rang the doorbell.

After a moment or so, Vera opened the door, and I saw just how exhausted and strained she looked. She gave me a weak smile as she stepped aside to let me in, her eyes red and bloodshot.

"You look awful," was the first thing I said.

She gave a dry laugh, "Thanks, Rose."

"I just meant-"

"No, I know I look like the walking dead," she shook her head. "Do you want some tea or anything?"

I shook my head and she nodded an understanding.

"Come upstairs, I'll show you Henry's room," she said, leading me up the stairs.

Henry's room, located right next to Vera and Patrick's, was painted white, with a soft throw-rug over the wooden floorboards. The furniture was either hand-me-down or hand-crafted by Patrick, and- though I, myself, would have preferred new and beautiful things- it made the room feel cozy and welcoming. In his bassinet, Henry slept soundly, his little hands balled into pudgy fists, his lips pursed, and his lashes tickling the tops of his cheeks. He didn't look like it took a lot to take care of him, but I could imagine that he probably had a set of lungs to rival Stanley's or Charles's- he was _Vera's_ son, after all, and she had a pretty loud mouth when she wanted to.

Rubbing her forehead tiredly, Vera said, "You don't have to do anything right now, because he'll probably be asleep for awhile, and I just fed him." She peeked at him over the sides of the cradle, "If he wakes up just hold him or change him if he needs it- anything you need is in the wardrobe."

_Oh God_, I thought to myself, _I do not want to wipe Vera's son's rear end_.

"If there's a dire emergency just wake me up," she said, heading for the door.

"Wait!" I stopped her. She was going to be _asleep_? I thought I was just going to assist her in anything she needed to do, I hadn't thought I'd be manning things by myself. "You're going to sleep?"

She gave me a wry smile, "Rosalie, I haven't had a proper night's sleep in weeks."

"But- what if he cries?"

"Just rock him, sing to him, change him," she said, as if it were obvious. "He's sleeping so you'll be fine."

I looked at the cradle, and then at Vera, as if I was measuring how to get out of this.

Looking beyond tired, Vera said, "I'll just be in the other room- you'll be fine," and she left the nursery.

I listened to her moving around in the next room for a few minutes, and then her bed creaked, and before long, everything was silent and still. Careful to make as little noise as possible, I moved to a rocking chair across from the cradle and sat down, a warm and gentle breeze blowing in through the window beside me. For some reason, I was surprised to find the window open. Maybe because I figured Vera would want to keep them closed- to shield Henry from anything and everything she possibly could. Idly, I wondered if she left them open at night. In turn, this made me think of the Lindbergh baby, swiped from his own room by errant kidnappers for an ill-planned ransom. It still made me sick to think that such a thing happened- especially to an innocent baby.

A gurgling sound came from the cradle, and I craned my neck a little, seeing that Henry was squirming around in his cradle.

I considered ignoring him- he wasn't screaming after all, just gurgling- but hesitantly stood up instead, making my way over to the cradle. When I peered over the sides I was surprised to see that Henry was still impossibly small and fragile-looking. As I gazed at him, he looked over at me- a little startled. At first, we just stared at each other, neither of us doing anything. And then I cleared my throat, offered him a smile, and said, "Hi, Henry."

He squirmed a little at this, but kept staring.

"I'm your godmother- your- er- Aunt Rosalie," I said, feeling a little awkward talking to this baby who wasn't responding.

Little Henry waved his arms at me a bit, and I couldn't help but smile at this.

I stepped right up to the side of the cradle and leaned on it, my hair spilling in a little bit. Henry, upon seeing my hair, immediately took hold of a handful and pulled.

"Henry," I said, trying to pull my head away from the cradle- enough to get my hair back anyway. "Henry, let go."

Reaching in, I took hold of his tiny fist and gently unwound his fingers from around my hair. Sweeping my hair behind my shoulders, I looked into the cradle to see Henry screwing up his face, making strange sounds of complaint. Panicking a little, I tried to soothe him by saying 'Calm down!' and 'It's okay!' over and over, but that, of course, didn't work. He began to suck in his breath and make prerequisite sobbing sounds. I fluttered my hands over him, wanting to pick him up, but being too afraid I'd drop him or hurt him. But if he managed to open his mouth and scream, Vera would be sure to wake up and then I'd feel even more useless than I already did. So, taking into consideration all Cooky had ever done when Charles and Stanley were babies, I leaned over, cradled him in my hands- carefully supporting his head- and held him close to me. When he felt secure enough in my arms, I rocked him very gently, walking slowly around the room. Eventually, he quieted down, gazing into my eyes and waving his arms at me again- the fact that I had taken my hair away from him, forgotten.

"See," I whispered to him. "We can be friends, right?"

He responded with a sort of whining sound- one that wasn't negative in any way.

I smiled down at him, and his lips turned up- ever so slightly- and I knew that I loved him as if he were my flesh and blood nephew. Also, I knew right away that I wanted one of my own- one that _would be_ my own flesh and blood, one that would be mine forever.

* * *

I had never been in Sedgewick Books before September eighth, nineteen thirty-three. And the only reason I had gone into it then, was because I had gotten caught in a downpour on my way to meet Corinne and her friend Maggie for lunch. Hoping the clouds would just stay gray and threatening, instead of actually opening up, I had left the house without an umbrella or a coat, and then I had been punished for it. Only two minutes into my walk, it began to rain- a light drizzle on a gray afternoon. But it quickly turned into a heavy pour, and I knew I wouldn't make it to lunch on time. Sedgewick Books had been the closest shop, and it had looked warm and inviting from across the street. So, I hurried over- sidestepping several large puddles on my way- and quickly entered the shop.

The first thing I noticed when I walked in was that it smelled of old books and ancient, bound leather. The second thing I noticed, was that the man behind the front counter looked a little tense.

He tried to smile at me when I entered, but it looked strained. "May I help you with something, miss?" he asked.

"No, thank you," I replied. "I'm just looking."

He nodded, and turned a little, craning his neck to look around the store defensively.

Walking past the front desk, I made my way through the cramped store- filled floor to ceiling with old and new books of every color and size. Nothing was organized, and it seemed that if you wanted to find something, you had to do it by chance. My eyes swam over titles and bindings, but I didn't pick anything up. I wasn't much of a reader- nothing could hold my attention that long, especially when half the time it wasn't even real or it had already happened- so I just looked around, hoping the rain would pass soon enough.

At the end of an aisle- I saw a title that caught my eye from the perpendicular shelves. I can't remember what it was now- something about Egypt, I know, because it made me think of Will. I stepped forward and picked it up, opening the front cover and flipping through the first few pages, hardly taking in the words that passed before me.

"Would you like help with anything, sir?"

I was a little startled when I heard the owner's voice again, and I turned to see that he wasn't even talking to me. A few feet away, stood Edward- the strange, pale boy I had bumped into a year ago; the one who had looked at me on Christmas Eve from his window; the one I had dreamt about so long ago. How had I not noticed him so close to me in the bookstore? How had I not even heard him breathing? Stacked up by his feet was a pile of books, and he was looking at the owner as if he was annoyed, and it looked like he was holding his breath as well.

Stoically, he said, "No. Thank you."

The man nodded, a little disheartened, and then turned to me and asked, "May I help you with anything, miss?"

I shook my head, and offered him a smile, "No, thank you."

When the old man was gone, the atmosphere became tense and heavy- but I don't think Edward even noticed. I continued to flip through the pages of the book in my hands, but I wasn't seeing what was in front of me. Instead, I was thinking about the Cullens, about Edward and the dream he had been in months ago. Something about the family made me feel strange- a strangeness that I couldn't decode, for it was made up of a hundred contradicting components- and I couldn't help but also hold an aversion to them for some reason. Whether it was their beauty or their detachment from society, I didn't know.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the beautiful boy only a few feet beside me, only to find that he was looking right back, seeming a little annoyed. I went back to my book quickly, my heart picking up speed. He frightened me. Everything about him made me want to run away or fight him- made me want to have him sent out of Rochester forever- and it was disconcerting.

Suddenly, I didn't care if it was pouring rain outside- or even if there was a hurricane plowing through town- I couldn't stand to be in that bookstore a moment longer. I shoved the book back into place on the shelf, turned on my heel and made my way back through the aisles. Just as I was reaching the front, I heard the bell on the door chime, and another impossibly beautiful man was walking into the store, leaning an umbrella against the wall by the door and smiling warmly at the owner.

"Dr. Cullen," the old man looked relieved as he greeted the doctor. "How are you today?"

Nodding, Dr. Cullen said, "I'm well Mr. Sedgewick, and yourself?"

"I'm doing all right."

"Is my brother-in-law here by any chance?" Dr. Cullen asked, and from where I was standing, pretending to study another bookshelf, I admired the gold of his hair and perfect mold of his body. "Mrs. Cullen's been wondering after him."

Mr. Sedgewick nodded, "Yes, I believe he's still in the back."

I was going to wait for Dr. Cullen to go into the back to retrieve his wife's brother, and then I would slip out of the store and find another shop to stand in- or maybe I'd just run all the way home. But, before Dr. Cullen could even move, someone was ghosting past me, making my skirt and my hair waver a little with the sudden movement.

It was Edward, suddenly standing at the counter and putting his books in front of the register, looking at the owner, waiting for a total and receipt to be drawn up for him.

"Edward, there you are," Dr. Cullen said warmly. "Your sister's been wondering when you would acquire enough books to your satisfaction. She asked me to grab you on my way home."

Mr. Sedgewick rang up all the items quickly, and as each one was added into the total, Edward would grab it and shove it into a messenger bag. Finally, he paid, without having spoken a word to either of the men, and he walked for the door.

Dr. Cullen shook his head good-naturedly- as if this was just the way of teenagers- and said good-bye to Mr. Sedgewick, before following Edward out the door and ducking under the umbrella with him and disappearing down the sidewalk.

If there was ever any doubt in my mind before, I was sure that I didn't like the Cullens now- maybe I wasn't exactly aware of the reason why, but I knew I didn't like them in the least.

* * *

The Hale household was very tense and strained with the ending of September. It had become common for Father to come home angry everyday, snapping at almost anything, tolerant of little to nothing, demanding a drink with dinner and after as well, and hiding away in his study when he had any free time. So, we all learned to act as if we were treading on egg shells. Avoiding his brutish attitude at all costs, and tentatively working around it when we had to. Dinner became a quiet, uncomfortable affair. Charles and Stanley would eat with sullen looks on their faces, afraid of our father and worried that they'd be reprimanded for something- anything. Mother focused all of her attention on trying to fix Father's temper, by having Cooky make his favorite foods and having his drink and his cigarettes ready at the usual times. But he was never satisfied, because- no matter what- he always found something wrong, something to complain about. And we all tried to live with it, because he was our father- the man of the house, the provider- and it wasn't like there was anything we could do about it anyway. Things were changing at work, and it was making him tense and anxious. What could _we_ do about such things?

"Maybe we should go away for the weekend," Mother suggested one night, when Father was digging into his potatoes with a scowl on his face. "Get away from the stresses of life and such."

He shook his head, saying, "I don't have time- not now. Maybe when things settle down," and he sounded as if she was bothering him by even suggesting a weekend away.

Dropping her hand toward her plate defeatedly, Mother asked, "When _are_ things going to settle down at work?" She was careful to keep her voice light, though I heard the accusation and loss of patience in her voice. "It seems like things have been unsettled for awhile."

"King's son is taking over at the bank soon," Father said, as if he needed to defend himself. "He's overseeing positions and policies now- He and Royce Senior are changing things before the kid takes over, and it's driving everyone up a wall."

"That's right," my mother said, and the way her voice had lightened- but had also gotten full of manipulation and curiosity- made me pay attention to the conversation before me. "Mr. King has a son- Royce King the Second."

Father frowned at his peas, "That's right."

"How old is Royce now?" she asked, taking a sip of water from her glass- trying to seem unassuming and innocent, glancing at me very briefly.

I knotted my eyebrows in confusion. Did she think I knew Royce? Did she _want_ me to know him? Mother always had ulterior motives, and I had grown so accustomed to it that I hardly realized she was already scheming.

My father threw his hands up a little, "Nineteen- twenty? I don't know, Jane, I don't shoot the breeze with him."

Despite the short comment from my father, my mother didn't seem to mind that she had been snapped at. In fact, her eyes had taken a light, pleased look. I hardly noticed the calculations being made behind her eyes, or the way she had forgotten her dinner and was staring fixedly at the wall behind me, glancing at me and avoiding my eyes in intervals. I didn't know what she was up to, and at the time I didn't care. Ever since Henry was born, Mother and I had become separate in our lives together, and we only interacted when necessary. I was still her favorite, but she had wounded me somehow when she had kept me from staying at the hospital with Vera's family- as if she didn't trust me to make that judgment myself- and even as September drew to a close, I was still holding it against her. I didn't know then- and I'm positive she didn't either- that she was adding up the factors to sealing my fate, right there in front of me- a fate she could never have even dreamed up if she had tried.

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	19. Wearing White

**Author's Note:** Two finals down, two to go. I'm delaying studying for my French final tomorrow to update this- because I figured you guys have waited long enough, and it was high time I got back to Rosalie. And the fateful going-to-the-bank-and-dropping-off-her-father's-lunch scene finally arrives! Hope you all like it! (P.S. Thanks for all the reviews and messages I got between this update and the last. They really pushed me to post this chapter ASAP!)

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen  
Wearing White  
October 1, 1933**

* * *

October second was a Monday. The sky was overcast- an opaque but light gray- with intermittent appearances of the sky's blue and the sun's rays. I woke up as I usually did- around eight in the morning- and laid around in bed, lounging and relishing the softness of sheets for a little longer than usual. I listened as Father argued with Mother over a rushed breakfast, telling her she had woken him up too late. I heard Charles and Stanley sniggering, and then being ushered out of the house by Cooky, and Father fumbling around downstairs, yelling about his hat not being where it ought to be and his suitcase being a mess. In return, my mother told him he had to leave or he'd be late. He argued that he felt he was forgetting something. She insisted he had everything and guided him outside and to his car. After I heard the car start and then chug down the street, with Mother returning inside and moving around in the kitchen, I got up, pulled on my robe and slippers, and exited my room.

When I entered the kitchen Mother turned around and her face brightened, "Darling, sit, have some breakfast."

I moved across the room and sat down at the table. She poured me some tea and set a plate of toast and eggs in front of me. I spotted pieces of bacon left over on the other plates at the table and I asked, "There's no more bacon?"

Mother waved it off, "We ran out. Besides, you don't want to get meaty."

I looked at her and knotted my eyebrows, wondering what she was even talking about. I was perfect and I knew it.

"So, do you have any plans for today?" she asked, eyeing my mouth as I took a bite of dry toast.

I shrugged, "Vera and I were thinking about going to lunch."

"With the baby?"

"No, Mrs. Goodchild wanted to spend the day with him," I replied, taking a sip of tea. "Vera wanted to make the most of her day of freedom."

Mother seemed to consider this a moment before saying, "Well, I might need you to do a few things for me before you go."

I knotted my eyebrows again. What did she need me to do that she couldn't ask Cooky to take care of?

"Like what?" I asked.

She shrugged and looked annoyed, saying, "Just a few things."

I ate a forkful of eggs as she stood up and moved over to the counter. When she reached it she sighed very dramatically and turned to me, her hand to her cheek and said, "Oh, dear."

"What is it?" I asked, growing increasingly irritated with her for reasons I wasn't sure I could fathom.

She turned around and I saw that she was holding up my father's lunch bag. Though she was trying to look regretful and embarrassed, I could see her lips twitching- wanting to be drawn up into a smile- and her eyes were gleaming with triumph. Why did she give off this air of being proud that she had forgotten to give Father his lunch? Had she done it on purpose? Why? What would she get out of that?

"It seems I forgot to give your father his lunch before he left," she said, and her lips were twitching around the words.

I just stared at her, wondering why the morning was starting to feel like a production.

She seemed to be thinking for a moment, before she said- sounding as if she had just seen the light of an epiphany- "Well, you'll run it over to him, won't you?"

"Mother, I have plans with Vera-"

"Rosalie, drop it off on your way," she replied, irritated, but still determined and hopeful.

I groaned a little, asking, "Why don't you have Cooky bring it- or wait for Stan and Charles to come home for lunch?"

"You're already going out," she insisted. "It won't interfere with your plans if you leave early."

I rolled my eyes a little.

She smiled, because she knew she had won me over, "Just do this one favor for me."

I sighed, "Fine."

* * *

Autumn hadn't properly set in by the beginning of October, and my room was uncomfortably warm and stuffy late that morning. Perspiration was threatening to break out on my collar as I pulled the soft fabric of a coral dress over my head, inhaling the comforting smell of perfume and soap as I did so. As the skirt of the dress fell around my legs- light and fluttery- I stepped in front of my mirror and adjusted the folds of it, gazing at my reflection approvingly. I had begun doing up the buttons in the front when there was a knock at the door. I opened my mouth to say, 'Just a minute,' but Mother opened the door and stared at me from the doorway before I could even get a word out. From her reflection in the mirror, I could see the disappointment in her face as she said, "Oh," as if she had been expecting to find something different in my room. It nearly made me snap and demand, 'What now?!' but I managed to keep cool and continue to button my dress.

When she made a 'hm' sound, I forced myself to ask, "Is there something wrong, Mother?" in a decidedly pleasant tone.

"Oh, no," she said, as if she hadn't even wanted me to know there was a problem.

I glared at her reflection, ready to drop it there.

"It's just," she began, continuing when I wouldn't take her bait, "I thought you might wear your white organza today."

This made me actually turn around and stare at my real mother- as opposed to her reflection- and ask, "What's wrong with the coral?"

"Nothing. It's just that you look so beautiful in the organza- and you seldom wear it," she pointed out, walking over to my wardrobe and pulling it out to show me. She was right on both accounts, though the dress made me look ethereal and highlighted my beauty, I hardly wore it. Wearing white made me feel sour. "You should wear it for your day out- before it gets cold again."

I actually believed her then- when she pointed out that I hardly wore it and that it would be getting too cold to wear it soon- so I unbuttoned the coral dress, stepped out of it, and took the white organza from my mother. She helped me into the delicate, sheer fabric, smiling like she had just won a prize as she did up the pearl buttons at the back.

Quietly- almost hesitantly- she suggested, "Why don't you roll up your hair too?"

"Mother," I said, turning and looking at her questioning. "Why are you making a big thing out of this?"

She tried to look confused, "I don't know what you mean-"

I just shook my head and turned again for her to finish buttoning the back.

After a long beat of silence, she tried to defend herself by saying, "I just think the dress looks best when your hair's up."

Because my back was turned to her, I rolled my eyes.

"And why not look your best for when you pay your father a visit?" she asked, putting her hands on my shoulders and gently turning me around- now that she was done with the buttons. "Make him proud for all of his colleagues to see you at your best- his beautiful Rose."

This got me. Thinking of all those men seeing how beautiful I was- no matter how old they were or what position they had- and complimenting my father for having such a gorgeous daughter, it made the pride in me swell. And it would please my father- who was always in such a bad mood lately- to have at least this to be proud of me. Maybe his boss would even comment on me, and the two would get to talking and Father would be offered a higher position. I was so shallow and vain then, that I was sure my beauty was capable of such things. So, I agreed to let my mother roll my hair up.

"All right," I said begrudgingly. "But only if you can do it in time."

Mother smiled and sat me down at my dresser, saying, "Darling, you're in capable hands."

* * *

The bank- all marble and brass fixtures- was cool and dimly lit when I entered through the heavy glass doors in the front. I didn't spend much time at my father's place of work over the course of my life, but whenever I had gone there, it had always been an adventure. When I was little, the clerks would give me sweets or slip me nickels, pretending like it was a secret- like they didn't want Father to know they were spoiling me. Once or twice, one of the workers even gave me a tour of the innards of the bank- a few vaults filled with dollar bills and actual jewels and some boring offices. And even though my visits to the bank had grown scarce as I grew older, it still felt welcoming and special, and I breathed in the smell of money and tile wax as I walked across the lobby late that fall afternoon.

Stopping in front of one of the tellers' windows, I said, "Hello, my name's Rosalie Hale- I'm here to see my father."

The man behind the bars set into the counter glanced up at me and then looked down, before looking up sharply again, as if really seeing me for the first time. He gazed at me appreciatively, no smile on his face- as if he couldn't bear to disrespect my beauty by smiling out of turn. I stared back at him, waiting. I was sure he knew my father, and it seemed that the look on his face said: 'Is this _really_ Mr. Hale's daughter?'

When he didn't say anything, I rolled my eyes ever so slightly to demonstrate my low tolerance for his inability to speak, and said, "He's expecting me."

"O-Oh!" the young man snapped into action. "Y-Yes, of course Miss Hale."

He left his post behind the counter- to the dissatisfaction of the other tellers working- and came around to permit me through a little gateway, past the counters. I breezed past him, saying, "I can manage from here, thank you," and walked past the front counters.

My heels clicked against the marble floor as I made my way down the center aisle of the bank, passing workers sitting at desks, talking with clients, tellers running from desk to counter, or interns being reprimanded by their superiors. I briefly wondered if my father's boss was there- Mr. King- or if his son, Royce King the Second was- if they had done anything to put my father in a bad mood before my arrival.

When I arrived at his desk, he was alone, head resting on his palm, pen poised over sheets filled with numbers. When he noted my presence, he looked up without smiling or looking too annoyed or harassed.

"Forgot something, Father?" I held out his lunch for him, smiling teasingly.

This made him smile a little as he took the bag from me, "I _knew_ I was forgetting something. Your mother woke me up late this morning."

"I heard."

He sighed, looking at all of the papers scattered around his desk. As he attempted to tidy them up, he said, "Here, have a seat. Do you want me to have someone get you a tea or a soda?"

I shook my head, "That's okay. I'm meeting Vera for lunch."

He nodded, "Did you want me to at least see if I can finagle a candy out of one of the clerks?"

"No," I laughed. "Thanks."

He looked at me, as if admiring a small ray of sunshine in his day and smiled, saying, "All right then, you go have your lunch."

I came around his desk and kissed him on the cheek, "I'll see you later, Father."

"Stay out of trouble," he called good-naturedly, as I made my around the desk again.

As I made my way back down the bank towards the doors again, I looked over my shoulder and said, "Of course!" returning the smile he was offering me as I left.

* * *

Since it was warm out, Vera and I sat at a table outside of Lindy's- a tea and sandwich cafe, not far from either of our houses- warming in the sun under our hats. We ordered a couple of iced teas and miniature cheese sandwiches, and then dove into mindless chatter about Rochester's finest. Vera complained that Corinne's new beau was absolutely atrocious and that she didn't want her bringing him around to visit with her and Patrick anymore, and I regaled her with stories about Betty Upstein's horrible halitosis, Peter Kinley's wandering eyes, and Morgan Winthrop's vacation to Florida. And by the time our sandwiches came we were talking and joking as if it were old times- an ability I hoped we would never lose. For the duration of that lunch it was like Vera wasn't married and it didn't matter that I didn't have a prospective fiance- Henry didn't exist and I wasn't missing anything. We were two girls, two best friends, just like we had always been, and it was so nice.

"My mother was acting so strange this morning," I mentioned, taking a sip of my iced tea. "She made me bring my father his lunch- because she 'forgot' to give it to him."

"That's hardly strange, Rose," Vera laughed, popping a bit of crust into her mouth.

I shook my head and looked off across the street, "No, I mean- I think she forgot to give it to him on purpose. And she never has me run errands for her, she has Cooky or one of the boys do it for her."

"And Heaven forbid she has _you_ do something," Vera joked.

Shooting her a look that said, 'I'm not kidding' made her roll her eyes. "It was just strange."

"I don't see what's so strange about it," she said further.

"She specifically pushed me into wearing this," I gestured to my white organza, "and she rolled up my hair for me."

Vera peered at me, looking me over with a raised eyebrow. "Huh, I _was_ wondering why you were dressed up." Batting her eyes at me, she said, "And I thought it was all for our lunch date."

Had I not been so well brought up, I would have thrown a sandwich at her, but I settled for shooting her a dirty look and saying, "I don't know _why_ she made me do it- which is what's strange!"

"Your mother is a strange person, Rose, what can I say?" she replied, shrugging.

I didn't take offense to this, only tapped my fingernails against my sweating iced tea glass and looked at the window of Lindy's beside me.

We sat in silence for only a moment or two after that, before I heard Vera exclaim, "Will Hollinday?!"

At first I hoped Vera was trying to be funny, but when I slowly turned, I saw him walking toward us, a woman holding his hand as he came over with a smile.

Vera stood and hugged him, kissing him on the cheek, "Finally decided to return to the country?" she teased.

He laughed, "Yeah, it's been awhile."

"Rochester has missed you."

His smile grew at this and he glanced over at me- as if to see who Vera was lunching with- and when he saw me, his smile lessened, but didn't disappear. "Rosalie Hale," he said, as if he couldn't believe it was me.

I hadn't seen him in years, and he looked good. He still had the same boyishness about him, but now it was matured- he was really turning into a man, and it was unnerving. His hair was neat enough, his clothes casual and worn, his chin covered with the slightest trace of stubble, and his skin very tanned.

Digging in Egypt, I reminded myself. That's where he was exposed to the sun.

"Will," I said, my voice wavering between pleased and worried. I stood and gave him a minimal hug, stepping back and saying. "How are you?"

"I'm good," he replied. "How are you?"

I nodded, "Good."

"My God, you two haven't changed much," he said, looking between us both. "Out to lunch and chatting- don't you have a child, Mrs. Weissman?"

Vera rolled her eyes good-naturedly, "I can have a day off here and there."

"Fair enough."

"Who's your friend?" Vera asked, and I was grateful, because I wanted to know who the woman on his arm was.

Will jumped a little, saying, "Oh God, where are my manners?" He put a hand on the woman's back and said, "This is Allie Fleet, my fiancee. Allie, this is Vera Weissman- Patrick's wife- and Rosalie Hale. They're childhood friends."

His fiancee. I felt as if I was going to lose my footing for a minute, as if the world was spinning around me.

Will? Getting married?

It made me sick.

"It's nice to meet you both," Allie said, and she sounded genuinely pleased to meet us.

I took in her appearance quickly- sizing her up in seconds. She had short, strawberry-blond curls, and fair skin. Her eyes sparkled a honey-gold and she had a few distinguishing beauty marks on her neck and cheeks. She was tall and slim, dressed casually in a floral dress, with a pair of gold earrings, and- I couldn't help but notice- a less-than-impressively-sized diamond on her ring finger. Her mouth was big- almost horsy- because of rather big teeth, and it made her smile wide and overt. This one flaw pleased me- relieved me. I was prettier than she was. I still had that over her.

"Where do you meet girls in Egypt anyway?" I asked without thinking, and I'm sure it came out snottier than I would have liked.

Will looked at me- as if he expected this- and said, "Allie's father owns a hotel in Cairo, we met at a museum there."

They met at a museum- so she was just like him, intellectual and self-satisfied. It made me want to gag.

Vera smiled for both of us, saying, "How nice. What are you doing in Rochester?"

"Bringing Allie to properly meet the family, to show her where I grew up and maybe look for a house," he said, not looking at me once as he relayed their happy plans.

I felt hot all over and I wanted to pull his hair.

Was everyone moving on with their lives except me?

"Will, you have to see your godson," Vera said. "You have to come to dinner- both of you."

They both smiled, and Allie said, "Thank you- that would be great."

"I'll hold you to it," Will said. "We'd better go, but tell Patrick I'll give him a call."

Vera nodded, "I will."

"It was nice seeing you," he said, hugging her again. "And you, Rosalie," he added, giving me a wave before entering the cafe with his fiancee.

Vera sat down again and I slumped into my own seat, suddenly feeling exhausted.

"I'm sorry, Rosalie," Vera hissed sincerely, once the two were inside. "I had no idea he was-"

I waved her off irritably, "It's not your fault, Vera."

"If I had known he was engaged I would have told-"

"It's fine," I said more firmly.

And it was. Mostly.

* * *

The doorbell rang an hour or so after dinner. By then I had pushed the Will encounter from my mind, and had managed to focus on other things- like looking for a pair of gold earrings in my jewelry box. So when the sound of the bell sounded from the front of the house, I didn't pay it any mind. I wasn't expecting anyone, so it didn't matter to me. Instead, I continued sifting through the box, teeth clenched together, growing increasingly frustrated with every passing moment. Because of the missing earrings. And maybe because it wasn't exactly easy to keep myself one-hundred percent focused on searching for jewelry, given what had happened that day.

"Rosalie!" my mother called, and her voice was excited. "Come downstairs!"

I rolled my eyes and pulled my hands from the box, standing and muttering, "Can't you just leave me alone?" as I crossed the room.

When I reached the family room, I saw father standing by the coffee table, his paper and drink discarded; Stanley and Charles were standing with him too, as was Mother. I was so fed up with everything being a game or a surprise that day, that I was sure I was slouching as I entered the room. Upon noticing me, Mother turned, revealing a bouquet of a dozen red roses in a glass vase on the table. Around the neck of the vase was a thick, white, silken bow, and even from across the room, I could see a thick, creamy card tucked underneath it. It was evident that they were for me- judging by the fact that my mother had called me down, and that everyone was staring at me expectantly- and I straightened up immediately.

"Who are they from?" I asked, crossing the room and bending over them, catching a whiff of their strong, sweet scent.

Mother was beaming and she said, "Why don't you read the card and tell us?"

I slid the card from under the bow and admired my name, written in smooth, clean ink, on the front. Then, with my heart picking up speed, I opened the card and read.

_A Rose by any other name could never be  
so sweet, or more beautiful. I hope you will  
grace me with your presence at dinner sometime soon, Miss Hale.  
Yours truly,  
Royce King, the Second_

"It's from Royce King," I said, my voice quavering ever so slightly.

God, I was impressed- I was _so_ impressed. And I was flattered and smitten already, without ever having even met him.

My father balked, "Royce King?"

"The _Second_!" my mother interjected, as if scolding her husband for his ignorance.

I shook my head, "But I don't even know him."

"Surely you've met him at a party, or an outing," Mother reasoned. Then, she mocked a look of realization, saying, "He must have seen you today when you went to the bank!"

Looking back down at the card, I realized she must have been right. I hadn't noticed him, of course, but that must have been it.

Squeezing my arm, Mother said, "You have to accept!"

"She does?" Father asked, and I looked at my mother questioningly.

"Of course she does!" she replied. "It would be rude to decline! Besides, Royce is such a sweet boy."

I wasn't sure if my mother had even met him, but then again, she might have been introduced to him at a bank Christmas party or picnic or something; so, I took her word for it.

"He didn't even ask me to dinner directly, Mother," I said, folding the card closed and fingering a soft rose petal.

Mother rolled her eyes impatiently, still smiling, and she said, "It's only a matter of time!"

* * *

That night, as I lay in bed in the darkness, I stared at the roses sitting on my vanity table, visually tracing each flower's shadowed silhouette from across the room. The card Royce had sent with the bouquet was hidden inside the pages of an unused diary, in the drawer of my night stand, and I itched to take it out and read the words again and again- even though there was barely any light to see by. But I remained still in my bed, staring at the flowers and thinking. I wondered who Royce King really was, questioned his motives and his person, prematurely defended who I was and what I wanted out of life. But mostly, I smiled in the darkness, going over his words in my head, flattered and pleased that someone so well-off appreciated my beauty enough to send me flowers- _roses_.

I knew- without even being sure that he would ask me out to dinner- that I would agree to see him if he called. After all, I knew he was handsome- though, how handsome, I wasn't sure- and powerful, wealthy and charming. Not one thing really turned me off of the idea of Royce King. But, my God, I wish something had. I wish I could have known then that he was going to turn out to be the worst kind of monster- in an existence that would be marked by every example of the word- and that I would regret accepting those roses for a long time.

* * *


	20. Different Leagues

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen  
Different Leagues  
October 5, 1933-October 7, 1933**

* * *

A bouquet of roses came every day after that. I had two of them on my vanity table, one atop my wardrobe, and one on my night stand, all a rich, deep red. They smelled sweet and pungent, and I fell asleep and woke up to roses, breathing in and being reminded of Royce King. I spent a good deal of my time in my room for those few days, smelling the flowers and staring at them, forcing myself to not look at that first card, and to not be disappointed that there hadn't been a second note- only cards with my name on them- to accompany the other bouquets. Truthfully, I invested too much in those flowers- in the promise of Royce King the Second- even though I didn't let anyone see it those first days, and it disgusts me now. I _reveled_ in the comments my family made about it- only pretended to be angry at Vera when she teased me for loving the floral gesture of romance. Royce had me before I even knew him, and I wasn't even aware of it.

The telephone rang on Thursday, during dinner, and Mother told Cooky to get it.

After an excruciatingly long moment, Cooky returned to the dining room, and said, "A Mr. Royce King is calling for Miss Rosalie."

Everyone looked to Father.

He saw the anticipation and excitement shining in my- and Mother's- face, and he rolled his eyes a little, saying, "Go ahead and talk to the boy- he's spent enough money on flowers to earn a phone call."

I leapt from the table, ignoring my brothers' comments as I left the dining room, and went into the living room. Once there, I sat down on the armchair, smoothed out my skirt, took a calming breath, and picked up the phone.

Sounding expertly calm and aloof- but also curious and welcoming enough, so as not to seem too cool- I said, "Hello?"

"Hello," he said, and it was the first time I heard his voice- it was cool, and filled to the brim with charm and confidence- and it sounded like he was smiling over the phone. "Miss Hale, might I say it is quite a pleasure to finally speak to you?"

I found myself smiling a little at that- melting as he spoke. I guess that was his tactic: hook, line, sinker.

Playing it coy, I said, "That depends. Am I finally speaking to the same Royce King who's been sending me bushels of roses?"

He seemed to like that- my bit of a flirting attitude- and he laughed a little, saying, "Guilty as charged, miss."

"Then the pleasure is all mine," I said lightly.

"I'm glad you liked them," he replied, sounding confident and sweet- pouring just enough vulnerability into his voice for me to believe he wasn't in complete control.... yet, anyway.

I smiled to myself and bit my lip to keep from grinning, not saying anything in return.

After a beat of silence, and then sounding blase, he said, "So, Miss Hale.... Dinner? Tomorrow night?"

I was taken off guard by the abrupt invitation, but something about it was fresh and welcoming. I was so used to boys fumbling over their words, overthinking themselves silly, in order to ask me on a date. The fact that Royce King wasn't intimidated by me- that he was confident and cool and quick in inviting me to dinner- was refreshing. He knew what he wanted and he wasn't scared of me. It fooled me into thinking we were something resembling equals- which, in turn, made me think of Patrick and Vera, equal in life and love, which brought on the jealousy and yearning. And while it wasn't all that common for men and women to be equal then, it was nice to think we were at least on the same footing where our affections would be concerned.

With my heart beating deliciously, quick in my chest, I said, "I think that could be arranged."

* * *

The doorbell rang right on time the following evening, sending my heart flying excitedly around my body. I could actually feel it beating in every inch of me as I stood before the mirror in my room, smoothing out my dress and touching up my hair, a smile curling my lips just slightly. With my hands finally resting on my hips, I surveyed myself in the mirror and listened as the front door opened and closed, and then as my parents' voices sounded in the hall, followed by an unfamiliar and deep voice. Hearing that stranger's voice made my heart pick up even more speed, and my smile nearly spread into a grin.

A knock sounded against my door, and I quietly said, "Come in."

Cooky appeared as the door opened, her round face smiling, and she said, "Mr. King is here for you Miss Rose."

Regaining my cool, I nodded once, with a trace of a smile still lingering, and I said, "Thank you, Cooky, I'll be down in a minute."

She smiled, nodded, and bowed out of the room.

I waited a beat, smoothed my skirt down in the reflection of my mirror once more, and left the room. As I stepped onto the landing and made my way down the hall, the voices of my parents and Royce grew louder, and I felt renewed excitement bubbling up within me. And while I kept my demeanor cool and inviting enough, I used that lifting excitement and eagerness to float me down the stairs. Anxiety didn't even factor in- I was finally meeting the sender of the roses, the writer of the sweet missive that came with that first bouquet- and the excitement and eagerness over that diminished everything else. So when I descended the stairs, with three faces turned up, watching me, I didn't falter once.

"There she is," my father said, pride and slight relief edging their way into his voice.

I stepped down from the last step and looked from my father to Royce, who I smiled at lightly- just the right amount of coquette and angel showing through the turn of my lips. It was then that I finally got a good look at Royce King the Second.

He was tall and lean, not too muscular or thin, but perfect. His hair was a pale gold- paler than my own- and his eyes were a cool blue, dreamy and piercing at the same time. He had soft pink lips, and I remember thinking that it was strange for a man to have such nice lips, but that didn't stop me from being attracted to them almost right away. His powerful chin and jawline were clean-shaven, and everything about him was neat- safe to say, immaculate. Dressed in a custom-made suit and impeccably polished shoes, Royce even managed to almost make me feel inadequate in my own fashion sense- which was something truly difficult to do, especially in my heyday. All in all though, I was impressed by his appearance, and it catapulted me straight into liking him.

"Miss Hale," Royce said, handing me a bouquet- _today's_ bouquet- of roses, his eyes never faltering from my own, his smile knowing.

I held the roses up to my nose and inhaled deeply, smiling as I raised my head again, saying, "Thank you very much."

He nodded his head deeply, a handsome and pleased smile still on his lips, then he asked, "Ready to go?" looking from my parents to me.

I glanced at my mother and father, saw their hungry, encouraging faces, and turned back to Royce, saying, "Yes." Turning to my mother, I handed her the roses and said, "Could you put these in a vase for me, Mother?"

She took them, beaming and saying, "Of course, dear."

"Mr. Hale," Royce said, shaking my father's hand. "Mrs. Hale." He gently- barely- put his hand on the small of my back. "I'll be sure to have her home at a reasonable hour."

My father looked like he wasn't sure whether he should be happy anymore- like he had just realized he was coaxing his daughter into the lion's den, and that he was ecstatic about it. But my mother looked like she was going to kiss Royce herself from sheer excitement and gratitude.

"You two just have fun," she said.

I was mildly embarrassed by my mother's exuberant behavior, but Royce was so cool and unbothered that it smoothed out the wrinkles in my own reaction, and I picked up my pocketbook from the end table in the hall, making my way to the door with Royce, my parents following close behind us.

My father opened the door for us and we stepped out into the cool, early evening, Royce's hand still hovering against my back, protectively and confidently- making my heart flutter and my stomach lighten with happiness. I practically floated alongside him as we made our way to the gleaming black Rolls Royce parked in the driveway- complete with obediently waiting driver- and I had to bite back a smile.

A Rolls Royce with a driver! He had me eating out of the palm of his hand.

"Not _too_ late, Rose," my father called, suddenly sounding wary, but I pretended I hadn't heard him. I didn't need my father's newfound paranoia and overprotective tendencies to get in the way of what I felt would be a perfect night.

The driver- a tall, middle-aged black man with a friendly smile- opened the door for us. I slid in gracefully, followed by Royce, who didn't so much as glance at his driver when the man closed the door.

"Ever been to Bautiste?" he asked, as the driver came around to get in the front.

"No," I replied. "I haven't had the chance."

That wasn't true. Though my parents were by no means poor, even I couldn't afford to go to Bautiste- and no one who _could_ afford it had ever taken me before.

Royce looked pleased that I hadn't been there though, and he said, "You're in for a treat then."

I was in for something, but I'm not sure it was necessarily a treat.

* * *

The front facade was painted black, with gold letters over the awning that read 'Bautiste' in elegant, slanting print. A box of perfectly trimmed hedging lined the large front window, the scene behind the glass half-hidden by translucent, gauzy curtains. A valet- who had previously been standing at the bottom of the steps that led to the front entrance- came over to the car and opened the door for us. Royce stepped out onto the sidewalk, offering a hand to help me out when he turned back to the car. I smiled at him, took his hand, slid out of the car, and gracefully righted myself on the sidewalk- all in one fluid motion. The valet closed the door behind us and Royce, letting go of my hand, stuck out the crook of his bent elbow. I slid my arm around his and allowed him to lead me up the stone steps and to the front, where another valet opened the door for us, nodding respectfully as we walked past him.

"Good evening, sir," the maitre d' greeted us from behind the podium in the front of the restaurant. "How may I help you?"

"Dinner for two? Reservation under King," Royce replied, pride and confidence oozing out of his every syllable.

The maitre d' didn't even check his list to confirm this, he immediately said, "Of course sir," and grabbed two menus. "Right this way."

He brought us to a table in the center of the elegantly decorated dining room, pulling out my luxuriously upholstered chair for me, and then for Royce. As we seated ourselves, I could feel the other diners looking at us- gazing at Royce in slight awe and admiration, checking me out in curiosity and envy. I was dining with Rochester royalty, after all- the heir to the King legacy. And I liked it- the attention and the envy, feeling my confidence expand under everyone's prodding eyes. It made me feel like I was putting on a pair of perfectly custom-made shoes- like the attention and the luxury were just right for me, like I had been waiting to fit into this world my whole life.

The maitre d' handed us our menus and he said, "Your waiter will be right with you, sir." Bowing a little closer to the table, he asked, "And might I get something for you and the young lady to drink while you wait?"

"A bottle of your finest red, Ken," Royce said, discreetly slipping a dollar bill into the man's hand.

Smiling admiringly, folding the bill into his fist, the maitre d' said, "My pleasure, sir," and he bowed his head a little, turning away.

Prohibition wasn't officially over everywhere, but as I was sitting there, I realized that it didn't matter. Even if Prohibition had still been in full swing, I'm sure a King could have had a bottle of wine without a problem.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, looking at me with probing- almost teasing- eyes.

I thought about the last and only time I had had alcohol. At Vera's. I remembered being sick all night, being embarrassed by my mother's needing to take care of me while I vomited and cried on the bathroom floor. I thought of my vow to never have a sip of alcohol again. But looking at Royce across the candlelit table, I knew I couldn't say no. Besides, it was only a little wine- I would have a glass with dinner and that would be it. It wasn't homemade brandy at Patrick and Vera's. This was different- this was upper class dining at its finest.

I smiled sweetly at Royce and shook my head, replying, "I don't."

Just then, a busboy arrived and filled our glasses with ice water, disappearing as the maitre d' returned to uncork a bottle of wine- one that Royce had to look over and approve- and fill our other glasses with the deep red alcohol. Royce took a sip of his wine and the maitre d' waited. He tasted it for a minute, nodded to the man, and then put his glass back down.

When we were alone again, looking over our menus, Royce said, "I highly recommend you try the coq au vin- you can't get it nearly as good anywhere else in New York."

He smiled at me encouragingly- knowingly, somehow- over his menu, and I felt myself smiling in return. "Is that so?"

He nodded, saying, "On my honor."

"Do you mean to tell me I can't get a better plate of coq au vin in New York City, even?" I challenged, my voice all tease and flirt.

Royce leaned in closer to me over the table, his ice blue eyes bearing into mine- making my insides turn to flimsy scraps of paper- and he said, "I couldn't lie to you, Miss Rosalie."

The way he was so serious about it- about coq au vin!- made me bite my lip to keep from laughing, which, in turn, made him smile, pleased.

Just then, the waiter came over and asked, "Are you ready to order, sir?"

All power and assurance, Royce slowly turned from me- his eyes lingering into mine as if he could figure me out straight away, as if we shared some kind of secret- and he said, "We'll have the mushroom and escargot appetizer," he said. "Then for the main course I'll have the beef- braised in the red wine sauce- and the lady will have the coq au vin." To me he smiled and said, "I _insist_."

To which I grinned. For some God forsaken and completely primeval reason, I liked that he was taking charge and taking care of me. I hated doing things for myself and I loved that he was so confident and sure. I was never once bothered by his powerful personality and controlling demeanor- I thought it made him seem manly and strong- it actually made me fall for him a little faster.

"Very good, sir," the waiter said- obviously impressed- and he turned and left us.

"So," Royce turned his full attention on me, picking up his wine glass and swirling the liquid around expertly. "Tell me your story, Rosalie."

I picked up my water glass and took a sip, raising my eyebrows at him and echoing, "My story?" He nodded and took a sip, never once taking his eyes off mine. "I wasn't aware I had one."

"Everyone has a story," he insisted, putting his glass down.

"Oh really?" I leaned back in my chair a little. "Then what's yours?"

He shrugged and spread his hands before him, as if to say, 'This _is_ my story.' "I'm Royce King the Second," he said with a knowing smile. "I have many stories."

I mistook that cockiness for self-assurance, not the big-headedness that it was.

"Tell me one of them then," I urged, batting my eyes at him ever so slightly.

He looked at me with a satisfied smirk, one that also seemed to say that my teasing and flirting might be too much for him to bear. After a moment of staring at me, he pretended to be caving in unwillingly, and he said, "Well, I'm twenty-three, I graduated from Princeton last spring, and I'm working to take over the bank for my father- as soon as he wants to retire, anyway."

"That's not a story!" I teased. "Stories are supposed to have drama and tragedy. Where's the tragedy in Princeton?"

Royce laughed, liking my attitude, and he joked, "Oh, Princeton was plenty tragic."

I smiled challengingly at him.

"What do you want me to say, Miss Rosalie? That I fought dragons in Camelot, saved a beautiful maiden, and watched my best friend die at the hands of an evil sorcerer?"

"Yes!" I played along, smiling brightly for him. "That's exactly the kind of story a girl needs to hear if you want to win her over!"

He nodded, still smirking and said, "Okay then. I fought dragons in Camelot, saved a beautiful maiden, watched my best friend die at the hands of an evil sorcerer, graduated from Princeton, and am now working at the bank."

I actually giggled- yes, giggled- at this, delicately covering my mouth with my hand and looking at him through sparklingly happy eyes.

"Now, your turn," he challenged. "Your story?"

"I'm really a French countess, sent here by my evil cousins to steal from the Rockefeller family, but I might not go through with the plan because of a sudden whirlwind romance that will turn me into a better person," I joked, flirting without inhibition or restraint.

Royce laughed heartily at this, saying, "Now _that_ sounds like a good story."

I shrugged, "I only provide the best."

"And how does the story end?" he asked, his eyes alight with mischief. "Who will change you into a better person?"

I took another sip of water, saying, "I'm not sure- I guess you'll just have to wait and find out."

He eyed me appreciatively, as if sizing up some kind of competition, and I stared him back down, the romantic challenge in my eyes.

"I like you, Rosalie Hale."

I smiled, my heart fluttering excitedly in my chest as I said, "I'm charmed, Royce King."

But I was more than charmed, I was already deeply hooked.

* * *

We were only a few blocks from my house when Royce told the driver to stop. I was confused as we slowed to a standstill along the sidewalk, but I wasn't nervous or afraid. I was with Royce King after all, and I was convinced that no harm could be done to me in his presence. So I just looked over at him in confusion in the backseat of the Rolls Royce, wondering what we were stopping for. He looked out the window, as if checking for something, while we waited for the driver to get out and open the door. And when the door did open, Royce stepped out onto the sidewalk and held his hand out to me. I looked at it, and then looked at him, my eyebrows knotted gently, my lips curled into the slightest smile.

"Care to take a walk, Miss Hale?"

I looked behind him, noticing for the first time that we had stopped beside one of the parks in Rochester. From where I sat in the car, I could see that the lampposts in the park were lit up, and some of the trees had been adorned with little twinkling lights. It looked like a fairy tale in the darkness of the autumn night- inviting and magical. And then I looked at Royce, the prince standing before me, offering his hand for a walk in the park.

My smile widening, I said, "I'd love a walk," and put my hand in his, allowing him to help me out of the car.

He let go of my hand and turned to his driver, saying, "I'll see you back at the Hales, Teddy."

"Yes, Mr. King," he replied, getting into the car and starting it up again.

"Shall we?" Royce asked, holding out his arm for me and smiling playfully.

I smiled in return, hooked my arm gently around his, allowing him to lead me into the park.

As we casually walked down the central pathway that wound through the park- his arm warm and firm, interlaced with mine- Royce said, "You know, I've only been in this park once or twice."

"Really?"

He nodded, "I don't have much time to spend in parks now, and when I was younger we went to the one park closer to our house." I didn't say anything in response to this, and he took it as his cue to elaborate, saying, "It has a lake, with boating and races and things. There's also a clubhouse there- for events and things."

His tone was slightly boasting, but I took it as entirely informative.

"I went to a party in this park once," I told him as we approached the fountain in the pathway. Water splashed down into the cement pool, pennies glittering at the bottom of it, the water and shine catching the lights twinkling in the overhead trees. We walked around the fountain and I said, "It was Gene Morgan's birthday party- I think I was seven or eight."

Royce smirked a little as I spoke, and it made me completely aware of how close we were- of his arm against my wrist- of how my voice lilted just enough to suggest my liking him- of how his pale blue eyes shone in the lights above us.

"There was a tent set up over there," I told him, pointing to the expanse of lawn to our right. "And on the other lawn, there was potato sack and wheelbarrow racing, and egg tosses and tug-o-war."

Royce turned his face to look at me as we walked away from the fountain, asking, "_You_ raced in a potato sack?"

"Of course not!" I replied, laughing at the image of myself in a potato sack of any kind. "I watched on the sidelines."

"Ah," he said, sounding a little amused. "That sounds more accurate."

I turned to face him then, eyeing him with narrowed lids and a playful purse of the lips. He caught sight of me and his smirk deepened. He seemed to like our playful banter, and I couldn't help myself but continue it. It was too delicious to halt, and he was too handsome and rich to resist.

"What, you never raced in a potato sack, Mr. King?"

He barked a laugh, saying, "No, I can't say I ever have."

"Not even at picnics in the summer?" I prodded. "All the boys I knew did that."

"No," Royce shook his head, still smiling happily. "I didn't go to many picnics in Rochester growing up- we were usually away during the season."

I perked up even more at this, asking, "Where did your family go?"

"Well, we have a house in France, and we stayed in a villa with friends in Italy quite a bit," he said, his voice just subtly condescending. "We went to Greece once, and we also visited my mother's friends in England. We went all over really."

The visions danced before my eyes, teasing me. I could see the delicious villa in Italy, with a terrace overlooking a beach. Beautiful people drinking wine and laughing, being served by real Italians. And I saw a country house in France, oozing history and decadence, beautiful and impressive. I saw fields and fields of flowers surrounding the house, giving way to suburbs, and then the city. I saw the upper classes dining and dancing in Paris, always beautiful and always worth my envy. It made me nearly salivate with jealousy. My summer retreats consisted of Grandmother's house in Maine, day trips to the lake, and occasional week-long stays at a hotel near the ocean- if father was in a good enough mood to arrange it.

I couldn't help myself when I asked, "Do you still go- to Italy and France?"

"Oh yes," he replied. "At least for a couple of weeks every summer."

"Wow," I breathed.

He looked over at me again, the carousal in the middle of the park looming before us- dark and eerie- and he asked, "You've never been?"

I shook my head, feeling a little embarrassed, "Unfortunately, no. I've never been to Europe."

"That's too bad," Royce replied. "It has a certain energy about it that America doesn't have."

Smiling lazily at the very sound of it, I studied the quiet carousal as we walked past. "I want to travel one day."

"Do you?" Royce asked, sounding surprised.

I looked at him and laughed a little, asking, "Why does that come as a shock to you?"

"You just strike me as a Rochester girl, that's all," he replied, laughing a little at my defensive response.

I stuck my chin out, still smiling, as I said, "Well, this _is_ home, but I would like to see more of the world."

Royce nodded, telling me, "There's a lot to see."

"I know," I said, dreading the fact that we were nearing the opposite entrance of the park. "My aunt and uncle don't have any children, so they travel the world."

I purposely left out the fact that they dug up ancient bodies and old, crusty pottery around the world.

"Oh yeah?"

Nodding, I said, "I think they're in Turkey right now."

"I'm impressed," he said, still half-condescending- though I didn't even notice- and half-surprised.

As we exited the park and lazily crossed the street, I changed the subject. "May I ask you a question, Mr. King?"

"Royce."

"Royce."

He shrugged as we turned down the street adjacent to my own, and said, "Shoot."

"I don't want to seem pushy, but I was just curious," I began. "Why did you begin sending me the roses? We hadn't even met before today."

"Would you believe me if I told you that I saw you across a crowded room- that I couldn't bear to _not_ compliment your beauty and ask for your company at dinner?" he asked.

I looked at him skeptically, trying my hardest to keep from grinning. I managed to only reveal a smirk as I asked, "And what crowded room was this, exactly?

"The bank," he replied. "I saw you come in the other day to visit your father."

My breath caught in my throat a little. I guess it was so unexpected that it startled me- so much so that I blurted, "_Really_?"

Royce laughed, "Yes, really."

We turned onto my street then and I tried to wrap my head around this. I don't know what I had been expecting him to say. It wasn't like Royce and I moved around with the same people, so it's not like he would have seen me at a party or a dinner that one of my friends had hosted. But the fact that he had seen me at the _bank_- on a day when I had just been bringing my father his lunch for my mother.... And hadn't mother said he must have seen me at the bank, the day the first of the roses arrived? For some reason it was unexpected enough to throw me, even though it was the simplest and most obvious explanation for his asking me out.

"Can I ask _you_ a question now, Miss Rose?"

"It's only fair," I replied sweetly.

With his smile trembling as he tried to keep it under control, Royce asked, "What does a girl like you do for fun usually?"

This caught me off guard too and I automatically replied, "What?"

"On any given night."

I thought about it for a moment and then said, "I go to dinner with my friends, parties sometimes." I shook my head and smiled again, asking, "Why?"

"I was just wondering if a girl like you would find a concert at the Browning Concert Hall fun?" he asked, his lips twitching as he tried not to grin.

My cheeks grew warm with excitement and my heart picked up speed. Trying to keep myself from grinning as well, both of us stopping in front of my house- just on the walkway- I said, "A girl like me would find that very fun."

"And would a girl like you go to a concert with a guy like me on Monday night?" he asked, stepping before me and taking my hand in his.

I nodded, "I think a girl like me would love to go to a concert with a guy like you on Monday night."

"Great, then I'll pick you up at seven?" he asked.

"I'll be here," I replied, smiling and lowering my lids just so.

He smiled at me, raised our hands, lowered his lips to the back of my hand- his eyes never leaving mine, making my skin tingle and my stomach drop- and he said, "Until then."

And then he was letting go of my hand, turning away from me, and getting into the waiting Rolls Royce by the curb. As the car started up, he waved at me through the window, and then he was driving away, his confident and charming face disappearing down the road, and my heart was swelling in my chest- my whole world spinning in the most delicious kind of way.

* * *

"Can you believe that I've never been to a concert before?"

Vera laughed a little at this as she played with Henry at the table, focusing solely on him, while giving me minimal reactions. It annoyed me because this is how it had been since I had arrived. She had invited me over for lunch, and while I had recalled my details of the date with her while we ate, she only gave me the barest of responses, paying more attention to the cooing Henry than to me. I understood that she was a mother- that the baby needed her attention- but she didn't have to invite me over if this was what she was going to do. And now we were done eating, sitting together as I told her about my upcoming date to the Browning Concert Hall, while she danced a teddy bear before her son.

The truth was, some part of me still resented Vera for being a wife and a mother. She was at a different stage in her life than I was, and she couldn't even deign to come back to my plane of being for an afternoon? I had just had a date with a very eligible and charming bachelor. I already had a crush. And on top of it all, we already had a second date planned! I needed my best friend and her words of wisdom and encouragement. But she couldn't even pay attention to me long enough to give any advice. And while I refused to acknowledge _why_ I was getting annoyed at the time, I was definitely losing my patience.

Continuing my attempts at getting her into the swing of the conversation, I asked, "I mean, what should I _wear_?"

"Oh God, Rose," Vera said, laughing at the idea of even thinking about it. "Damned if I know."

"This is Royce King the Second," I urged. "I can't just wear anything."

Rolling her eyes and shaking her head at me good-naturedly, she said, "God forbid you wear _anything_ with Royce King _the Second_."

"Help me, Vera!" I demanded loudly.

Henry startled at this and Vera looked over at me- the first time she had really looked at me all afternoon, seeming annoyed- at _me_! when she was the one ignoring me all lunch!

"Rosalie," she said, seeming tired of this subject all of a sudden. "I don't even know who Royce is." This annoyed me for some reason- not that it was hard for things to annoy me just then. "Besides, it's been awhile since I've worried about what to wear on a _date_."

The way she said it made my whole face change- I could feel it- made my ears shift on my head- made my eyes narrow and my jaw clench. Pursing my lips, I studied her as she looked back over at Henry, trying to get him to laugh and coo again, after I had startled him out of his reverie. So that's what this was? She had better things to worry about then my silly little date and my immature social life? She was my best friend, she should have _cared_- it shouldn't have been a competition, it shouldn't have separated us. But it did- I know it did. And all of a sudden, I couldn't take it anymore.

"Fine," I said. "You're obviously far too mature for my silly talk of dates and what to wear to them."

I stood up then and Vera looked up at me, confused. When she saw how angry and upset I looked, she slouched, saying, "Rose, I didn't mean-"

"No, apparently you're too busy to talk about this anyway," I said, my voice cold and hard, my eyes flicking over Henry. "I'll see you later."

I strode out of the kitchen, and as I walked down the hallway, Vera called my name. "Rosalie! Don't be stupid!"

But her words only ignited my anger even more, and I let myself out of the house before she could catch up to me.

* * *


	21. Playing with Demons

**Author's:** Special thanks to Caitlin and Joanna for proofing this chapter. You guys are awesome.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty  
Playing with Demons  
October 8, 1933-October 31, 1933**

* * *

I thought my fight with Vera would last much longer than it did. In high school we could hold out for days without speaking to each other- sometimes even weeks- waiting for the other person to admit defeat and apologize first. But ever since marrying and having Henry, our fights had become fewer and shorter. Mostly because Vera was becoming more likely to surrender in arguments and apologize quickly. I didn't know if it was because she truly thought I was right and she felt bad, or because she just didn't feel like fighting and holding grudges like we were still in high school. Somehow, I think it was the latter. At any rate, our fight in early October ended the day after it had begun, when Vera came over for a surprise visit- without Henry- and insisted we sit down and talk.

"Where's Henry?" I asked, as I sat down in the chair across from the couch where she perched.

She gave me a scolding look, saying, "With Patrick."

That's right, it was Sunday.

"What do you want to talk about?" I asked icily, folding my hands in my lap.

"Yesterday," she replied immediately, her voice free of agitation or stubbornness. "You stormed out of the house without even allowing me to explain."

I rose an eyebrow. "Explain what?"

She stared at my pursed lips- with a look in her eyes that almost made me feel like she _was_ far older than I was.

When she didn't say anything in response, I cut in, "Explain how you invite me to your house for lunch and then neglect to listen to a word I say? Or how you can't seem to accept the fact that I'm not a wife and mother like you are?"

"Rosalie, what are you talking about?" she asked, her brows furrowed. "I don't care if you're married or-"

"But you have better things to do than talk about my date with Royce- or even listen to me!" I said, as always, on the defensive.

Anger flickered in her eyes and she said, "I have a child, Rosalie, I can't just ignore him because you're present."

"Don't invite me to lunch if you're going to ignore me!"

She shook her head subtly, and then said, "I'm sorry I'm having trouble juggling every aspect of my life."

"I'm sorry my life isn't already over," I spat back, thinking of everyone moving on with their lives without me- turning my hurt and fear into cold, hard anger.

Vera looked as if I had just slapped her in the face and she stared at me with disbelieving, hurt eyes. Though I couldn't know, it never even occurred to me then that Vera might be jealous of the fact that I wasn't married with a child already- that I was somehow still free and able to be immature when she couldn't. It was the pure hurt in her eyes, however, that made me realize how cruel what I had said was. It made me step back from the scene and swallow my pride.

Shaking my head, I looked down and softly said, "I'm sorry, Vera, that was- I didn't mean that."

She shook her head at me when I looked back up, saying, "No, it's- it's fine."

"No," I managed to say, ignoring the part of me that still wanted to declare victory. "That was horrible of me."

Waiting a long moment, she sighed and said, "I came here to apologize to you- about yesterday. I know I can get very preoccupied with Henry and I wanted to make it up to you."

She had come over to apologize and make it up to me. The fact made me feel even worse about what I had said.

"Patrick said he could take care of Henry for the day," she said, smiling weakly at me. "I was wondering if you wanted to go shopping for your concert date."

This really meant a lot to me, and I stood up and strode across the room, sitting down beside Vera and taking her hands in mine. "I'm sorry, I'm the worst friend in the world," I said, the guilt overriding all pride and selfishness.

"No," she said, her face serious and drawn. "Not the worst- probably second worst- or third."

The way she said it- dead pan and solemn- told me that she was kidding, and we both broke into grins. I hugged her tightly and said, "I'm sorry I'm such a witch."

"I'm sorry I'm turning into a housewife," she whispered back.

I let go of her and smiled, both of us waving the white flag in one glance.

"Are you ready to buy something snazzy for your new beau?" she asked with a silly purse of the lips.

I smiled brightly and nodded.

* * *

All of Rochester's finest came out for the show at the Browning Concert Hall. My father's superiors from the bank were there, women my mother salivated to be friends with were there, girls I had never met and young men I had never seen were there, dressed to the nines and looking completely aloof and comfortable. The mayor of Rochester was even there, laughing jovially with his wife and friends. And as I walked through the lobby- the gleaming hall, filled with beautiful and rich people- on Royce's arm, I knew that I was rubbing elbows with the creme de la creme of Monroe County. The best part of it all though, was that I felt like I _belonged_ there- felt like this was where I should have been my whole life- and it made me clutch Royce's arm even tighter and smile coolly at everyone, as if we were all a part of one big club that others couldn't even begin to understand.

"Royce, my boy!"

Turning slightly, Royce smiled as a portly man with a thick mustache and gleaming gold pocket watch hobbled over to us. He had a kind, dark-haired woman on his arm and she smiled back at us as they approached.

"Mr. Miller, Mrs. Miller," Royce said, nodding to them respectfully. "It's good to see you both."

I knew a Mr. Miller was one of my father's bosses at the bank, but I wasn't sure if this was one of them. In any case, I smiled demurely and kept my arm encircled around Royce's.

The man shook his head, saying, "Shouldn't you be off somewhere wasting your youth?"

We all laughed at this, and Royce said, "I'll leave that to _you_, Mr. Miller."

The man guffawed at this, but grinned through his mustache, saying, "Good man." His eyes flickered over to me and he sobered up. Looking extremely impressed, he asked, "Royce, who is your beautiful date?"

"Oh, forgive me," he said. "Mr. Miller, Mrs. Miller, this is Rosalie Hale." Touching my hand lightly, he said, "Rosalie, this is Mr. Martin Miller and Mrs. Miller."

I smiled as Mr. Miller took my hand in his, looking at me in dramatic awe. "You're not George Hale's daughter, are you?"

"I am."

"You are a gem!" he told me, letting go of my hand. "What's a girl like you doing schlepping around with a guy like old Royce here?"

We laughed again, and I joked, "Oh, he's not so bad once you get used to him," making Royce look down at me with a cheeky smile.

"Ooooh!" Mr. Miller sounded. "She's sharp, King," he said to Royce, "make sure you don't lose her."

"I'll be careful, sir," he replied, winking very subtly at me.

The lights overhead flickered, and Mr. Miller said, "Oh! I think we're being summoned," he said. "Maybe we'll see you kids at intermission."

"Enjoy the show, Mr. Miller, Mrs. Miller," Royce said as the two made their way through the crowd and to the doors, into the concert space. As he began to steer me in that direction as well, he leaned near my ear and whispered, "You look beautiful tonight."

It sent delicious shivers down my spine, and I looked at him, smiling a coquettish thanks, feeling so perfect in this setting- with Rochester royalty- that I felt like I was floating on air.

* * *

In the middle of October- a week and a half after our second date- Royce took me dancing. While I had attended dances and parties before, I had never gone out to go dancing at a club. And I had most certainly never been to a club like the one Royce took me to. It was called, simply, Shirley's, and it was hidden behind a restaurant near the river. At first I thought it was suspicious, and I wondered why _Royce King_ would be taking me to a shady club, practically located in an alley. But then, when we had to pass by huge, imposing bouncers, I realized it wasn't as seedy or as classless as I had believed. In fact, I could see the wealthiest, most sophisticated, most eligible, and classiest members of Rochester's younger set, peppered throughout the club. Seeing this relaxed me immediately; the music coming from the stage in the back of club suddenly sounded brilliant instead of crass, the dim light catching against errant plumes of smoke looked glamorous and romantic, instead of spooky and sickly- and now that I could really see them, all of the people looked beautiful and well-off.

Royce found us a tall, circular table off to the side of the dance floor- one without chairs- and leaned close to me to be heard over the music, asking, "Can I get you a drink?"

I looked toward the bar- where people were sipping from martini glasses and champagne flutes, looking so glamorous and sophisticated that I was almost hypnotized- and paused. True, Prohibition was over, but what about my first and last encounter with alcohol? It had ended disastrously- with a splitting headache and a night of vomiting. And I had felt out of control- blissfully so, until the next morning when I remembered the previous night as embarrassing and horrible. Did I really want to subject myself to that again? I considered it, watching a girl with short, brilliant red curls, holding a flute of champagne, the liquid sparkling in the twinkling lights behind the bar. When she sipped, she looked so confident and elegant that I envied her. I had managed to get away with only _sipping_ the wine at dinner on Royce's and my first date- how long before he thought I was immature and unsophisticated because I wouldn't drink alcohol? Besides champagne couldn't be as lethal as Patrick's brandy, right?

"Just a ginger ale would be fine," I found myself saying anyway.

Royce considered me for a moment, then asked, "You sure?"

I nodded, before I could change my mind.

He smiled then, not embarrassed or judgmental- that I could tell- towards my choice and took it all in stride. "Be right back," he said, and turned, making his way toward the bar.

I stood on my own for few minutes, watching the crowds on the dance floor, enjoying the big band as their tunes bopped and dipped gaily. Looking around at the expensively suited people- at the fortune and sophistication that was being both displayed and downplayed at this sort-of-speakeasy- made me crave the lifestyle even more. I wanted to be one-hundred-percent a part of this crowd. I wanted the delicious clothes, the jewelry, the service, the homes, the cars, the opportunity, the attention- _everything_- I was hungry for every bit of it.

"Can I get you a drink, doll?"

Turning, I saw a freckled man with floppy red hair leaning casually against the table, smirking at me. He was okay-looking, not ugly, but not half as handsome as Royce. There was a sheen of sweat along his hairline and upper lip, and a sort of leer in his eyes.

I took one look at him and curled my lip in distaste. I had zero patience for being hit-on. Turning away from him, I coolly said, "Thanks, but someone's already gone to get me a drink."

"Not that stiff, Royce King?" the man countered, and I looked back at him, glaring. "Ditch that sod and come dance with me."

While his tone was flirtatious, something about it was also amused- like he was laughing at his own private joke- but I refused to play along. I was going to take him seriously and tell him off.

Before I could even open my mouth though, another young man, this one with dark hair, strode up to the table and asked, "Is this crumb bothering you?"

"Hey, Clark, I saw her first," the red-haired man said, still sounding as if he was joking, but also dramatically serious and proprietary.

I looked between the both of them, hardly believing that this was happening here- while I was on a date with Royce King- and I scoffed, rolling my eyes. I hoped they noticed- I hope they realized I wasn't planning on giving either of them the time of day.

"Come on, sweetie," the red-haired man said, "Just one dance."

Just then, the red-haired girl whose sophistication and champagne flute I had been envying earlier, sashayed up to our table and slung an arm around the red-haired man's shoulders. They both looked at me with dark green eyes and freckled faces, unnerving me with how similar they looked to one another.

"I think you've scared her enough, boys," she said, giving each of them a mock-scolding look, before turning back to me. "Don't mind them, hon, they just think they're funny."

I was confused and I didn't like it. I was just about to demand an explanation when Royce returned, cheerfully booming, "I leave my date alone for five minutes and you three have to descend like wolves?"

"It's what we do," the man named Clark said, smiling toothily.

Looking between the three and Royce, I pressed my lips together and waited.

"I'm sorry if these three scared you, Rosalie," Royce said, placing my ginger ale on the table in front of me. "These are my friends."

I nodded, forcing a smile for them.

"Sorry if I startled you, doll," the red-haired man said. "It was just a joke."

Royce sighed, as if they tired him and said, "Rosalie, this is Peter O'Malley, and his twin sister Nina." Gesturing toward the dark-haired man, he said, "And that's Clark Bateman."

I smiled and nodded at all of them.

"We've known each other since we were babies," Royce explained. "And somehow I _still_ spend time with them."

"Hey!" Peter interjected. "We're not that bad."

"Right," Royce joked sarcastically. "Anyway, this is Rosalie Hale."

They all smiled and said hello.

When introductions were through, Royce asked, "Where's Freddie?"

Nina leaned against the table, after eyeing my ginger ale for a moment, and said, "Down to New York City again."

"Yeah, apparently Rockie's not good enough for him," Peter put in.

"And Beth?" Royce looked at Clark.

Clark dismissively said, "Home."

"They got into a fight again," Nina put in, raising her eyebrows at me- as if we were old friends and only she and I understood it.

Royce chuckled and I sipped my drink, aloof but pleasant. Even though I wasn't feeling pleasant at all- these people had changed that.

It was because watching all of them- the incestuous closeness they seemed to share and the foreign language it felt like they were using- made me feel like I was watching from the outside- like they were part of a group so close-knit and so welded together, I couldn't become a part of the _them_ I envied. These were Royce's friends though- his inner circle. I desperately hungered to be a part of this knitted group, to be accepted by them, and, of course, by Royce. But at the same time, I wasn't worried. Nina was pretty, but I knew I was beautiful. And maybe they all knew each other from birth, but Royce liked me- of that I was certain- and I fit in with this class like it was made for me. Maybe their uninfiltratable group would make room for one more member.

"You know, King," Nina said. "I like this one," she pointed at me.

I wasn't sure if I should appreciate the comment or be angry by being referred to as '_this one_.' She didn't say it in a mean way though, and she had been nothing but friendly to me, so I just stood where I was, waiting.

"You should have seen her when Pete came up and tried to get her to dance," she said, looking both amused and impressed. "If looks could kill...."

Royce laughed loudly and looked at me, our eyes meeting- his dancing in delight. "Is that so?" he teased.

I shrugged, saying, "I'm not _his_ date, am I?"

This made Clark laugh and slap Peter- who looked a little chagrined- on the shoulder. Nina giggled.

"You _are_ right there, Miss Hale," Royce said, smiling slyly. "And on that note, would you care to dance?"

I smiled, pleased that our date was returning to what it was supposed to be about- Royce and I, not Royce, me, and his posse.

I gave Royce my hand and he said, "If you'll excuse us," to his friends, leading us away from the table.

As we began dancing, I noticed that- even as we swung and bopped to the music- Royce's eyes never left me. He watched me the whole time, and it made me flush with pleasure.

At one point, he pulled me to him and whispered in my ear, "I think you've won over all of my friends."

I pulled away and he spun me under his arm as I smiled, trying not to grin. "Is that hard to do?" I asked, overconfident and teasing, as always.

"Let's just say that they're not very forgiving," he told me, sending a thrill of excitement through me.

He said I had won over his friends- maybe that meant that they liked me- that I could easily become a part of their group.

Whether I had won them over that first night or not, I don't know, but Royce was positively right about one thing- his friends _weren't_ very forgiving.

* * *

The roses never stopped coming. Ever since that first day, I had received a bouquet at around noon, every day, like clockwork. The flowers filled up my room, pungent and sweet, beautifully and brilliantly red, dropping petals here and there. I loved them- adored them- spent more time in my room than I ever had before because of them. But because of the cleanup and maintenance- the need for extra vases, having to keep enough water in each vase, picking up the petals, keeping away from the thorns- they sometimes drove Cooky crazy. My mother however, was beside herself with happiness. Sometimes I noticed that she would come up with the most transparent excuses, just so she could come up to my room and admire the roses- an ostentatious reminder of who I was currently seeing. But I didn't even mind it- wasn't bothered by her wanting to admire the flowers. I was too busy enjoying all of it myself to worry about anyone or anything else.

A week or so before Halloween, right after lunch, the doorbell rang. I expected it was just my flowers, so I stayed in my room, trying to decide what earrings I should wear for the day.

"Rosalie! You have a delivery!"

I sighed and stood up, leaving my room and taking my time going downstairs. Following the sound of my mother's voice, I went into the living room, saying, "I know, Mother, the roses aren't-" I stopped myself when I saw a large, garment box sitting on the coffee table next to my newest bouquet. "What is that?" I asked instead, walking over to it.

"It's from Royce!" my mother said breathlessly, Cooky standing by in the background. "Open it!"

The box was black, with orange ribbon around it. Kneeling on the floor in front of the table, I tugged at the ribbon and it fell away easily. Gently, I pulled the top of the box off and brushed aside the tissue paper within. When I revealed what was inside the box my mother and I gasped, nearly in unison. Inside the box was the most beautiful gown I had ever seen. It looked like it belonged to an Elizabethan queen- made of a rich, burgundy velvet, and a crisp, glittering gold. On top of the gown was a note. I quickly picked it up and read:

_Dear Rosalie,_

_The O'Malleys are throwing a ridiculously over-the-top Halloween  
party on the thirty-first. I think I might be able to bear it if you  
come as my date. I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of sending  
this costume to you. The idea of 'queen' seems to fit you though.  
I hope you'll accept my invitation._

_With love,_

_Royce King the Second_**  
**

By the time I was finished with the note, my mother had gone through all the contents of the box. Aside from the gown with the elaborate white lace collar, there were stockings and a collapsable hoop for the costume as well.

"Well of course you can't decline the invitation," my mother said to me, bubbling over with excitement. "Not when he went to all the trouble of getting you this beautiful costume!"

Even if he hadn't sent the costume, there wouldn't have been a chance in the world that I would have declined.

* * *

Royce arrived- as usual- right on time. I was already waiting in the living room with my parents, dressed in the heavy, scarlet and gold gown, with the lace collar fanning out around my head, my hair in a low bun, and my make-up just subtly dramatic. My mother called for Cooky to get the door, and I stood from where I had been sitting in an armchair. When she brought Royce into the living room and I saw him, my face broke out into a smile. He was dressed in the attire of an Elizabethan royal as well, with a gold crown on his head, in more gold than scarlet- still matching my costume though- the king to my queen.

"You two look absolutely perfect," my mother gushed from where she was standing with my father.

Smiling at them briefly, Royce produced a golden, diamond-encrusted crown from behind his back. When I saw it, I smiled even more brightly.

"May I?" he asked me, raising it to put it on my head.

I dipped slightly and he nestled it securely atop my head.

When I straightened up again, I was fighting away a grin- something my mother was failing to do. "Absolutely perfect," she echoed herself, looking as if she was going to burst with glee.

"Shall we?" Royce asked, offering my arm. I nodded and slipped my arm around his. "Good night Mr. Hale, Mrs. Hale."

"You two have a good time!" my mother told us, practically pushing us into the foyer. "Tell the O'Malleys we say hello!"

My mother had never spoken to the O'Malleys in her life. Mr. O'Malley was an extraordinarily wealthy newspaper editor, and Mrs. O'Malley spent almost all of her time in France- supporting one artist or another and being supremely flighty. My parents had never met either of them and I'm sure Royce knew that, but he didn't say anything- only smiled- when my mother said it and walked us out the door.

It wasn't until the front door closed behind us- when I looked up from the hem of my dress and my feet- that I saw the limousine waiting for us by the curb. Royce's usual driver was waiting by the back door, but this limousine wasn't like his usual car. This one was longer, sleeker, and white. Royce saw the look of awe and delight on my face, and he laughed, pleased.

* * *

The O'Malley's house was- of course- in the wealthiest neighborhood in Rochester. It was big and white, with beautiful, expansive lawns, brightly lit picture windows, and an overall air of wealth and gaiety on that Halloween night. As I sat in the backseat beside Royce- stewing in my excitement and giddiness- his driver followed the long line of expensive cars around the long, circular driveway, to the front door. There, people were spilling into the house- all of them in different kinds of ridiculous and over-the-top costumes.

When we pulled up to the front, a tuxedoed valet opened our door for us. Royce got out and then offered me his hand as I stepped out as well. He smoothly linked my arm in his and followed the throng of people entering through the front door.

There was a man at the door taking names and checking them off from a list. For the briefest of moments I panicked- afraid I would be banished from the party because my name wasn't on the list- but then Royce approached the man with such confidence that all my fears dissipated.

"Sterling," he said, sweeping through the door without having to give his name.

"Good evening, Mr. King," the man said, just as Royce was guiding me into the foyer, allowing us to become one with the crowd.

Royce looked around for a moment, then leaned toward me, whispering, "You see that man- the one dressed up like a sultan?"

I looked, finding a man dressed in golden and amber robes and a turban, young and good-looking, laughing and greeting people at the bottom of a grand staircase. I nodded.

"That's Mr. O'Malley."

That was when I noticed the faint freckles on his face- the brilliantly green eyes.

"Where's Mrs. O'Malley?" I asked, turning back to Royce.

"I suppose she's spending her Halloween in London or Paris," he shrugged. "Let's go say hello."

He led me over to our host- who had just finished talking to a dark-haired couple dressed as fancy devils.

"Mr. O'Malley!"

The man turned and saw Royce, his face lighting up, "Royce! Son, how are you?"

"I'm good, sir, and yourself?" he asked.

"Fine, fine," he nodded, smiling a closed-mouthed smile. "Just arrived?"

Royce nodded, "We thought we'd say hello."

Mr. O'Malley's eyes flickered to me and the familiar recognition fell into place and he sobered up. I knew the look, he was just noticing how beautiful the person standing in front of him was.

"Royce, son, who is your friend?" he asked, his eyes barely leaving my face.

"Mr. O'Malley, this is my date, Rosalie Hale," he said, his hand going to the small of my back- comforting and safe.

Mr. O'Malley shook my hand, "Charmed, Miss Hale."

"Thank you for having me," I replied, cool and pleasant.

"It's a pleasure, really," he smiled.

He looked like he was about to say something else, but before he could get a word out, Nina swept up to us, a long black cigarette holder between her fingers, and a champagne glass in the other hand. She was dressed like a shepherdess, in a hoop shirt of white ruffles that stopped at her knees, revealing frilly bloomers halfway down her shins. Her fiery curls were arranged under a jaunty bonnet and she had a stalk in the hand with the cigarette.

"Royce!" she crowed, leaning in and kissing his cheek, giving him a half hug. Then she turned to me and smiled, "Rosalie Hale!" she said, and hugged me as well, kissing me on both cheeks. "You two have to come into the library- everyone's playing the most juvenile games and I'm about to dump my champagne all over them."

Royce laughed and we said a quick good-bye to Mr. O'Malley, before following Nina through the massive house and to an extensive library.

"I brought a couple of strays!" Nina announced, flopping down on a settee in the middle of the room.

Clark and Peter were both in the room, as was a young man and woman I didn't recognize. The three young men were dressed like the Marx brothers, and the woman- with her short, wheat-colored hair in poor waves around her face- was dressed like Joan of Arc.

"Freddie decided to come back from the Apple," Peter said, lounging in an armchair with a sweating glass in his hand.

"And Beth decided to to come out of her house!" Nina sang, making the Joan of Arc scowl. "Sit down you two, we're going to play the Minister's Cat."

Royce looked at me, shot me an apologetic and amused look- to which I smiled- and sat down with me on a small sofa.

"I'll start!" Nina trilled, sitting up straight and taking a drag from her cigarette. When she blew the smoke out of her mouth, she said, "The minister's cat was an abominable cat."

Peter looked like he was about to go next, but Joan of Arc- Beth, I'm sure- cut him off and said, "The minister's cat was a brown cat."

"Real entertaining, Beth," Peter muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Hey, Pete, would you back off?" Clark snapped.

Nina looked at me and shook her head, smirking- as if I knew the habitual behaviors and interactions of these people. Royce cleared his throat and said, "Rosalie?"

"Um," I sounded, thinking for a moment. "The minister's cat was a cuddly cat."

Royce picked up right after me, staring me in the eye and saying- in a coy voice- "The minister's cat was a _dangerous_ cat."

"The minister's cat was an egotistical cat," Peter crowed. Then, pointedly, with a mocking voice he said, "Clark?"

We all laughed, and the game went on like that- fun and familial- and I felt as if I was seamlessly becoming a part of Royce's world.

* * *

After playing a few rounds of the Minister's Cat, charades, and some other silly parlor games- that, with Royce's set of friends, seemed completely entertaining and amusing- Royce and I had gone back out into the party, mingling with people I had never met or heard of. I didn't have a problem with it though. I smiled and listened to all of the conversations, comfortable and easy in this setting, memorizing faces and names and gossip.

After an hour or two, Royce disappeared to get me a drink. I waited by an end table in the living room, people-watching and trying to look unbothered by being alone, but I ended up standing there for almost half an hour.

Feeling a creeping fury and embarrassment settle under my skin, I left the living room and searched for Royce in the entrance hall. Instead of finding him, I found Nina.

"Nina," I said, approaching her as she traipsed away from an older woman dressed as a pilgrim. "Have you seen Royce?"

"Run on you already?" she clucked. "I think I spotted him going outside- probably on the terrace, taking some air. You could go outside and give him a good whipping- I'll join you if you want-"

I smiled, but stopped her, "That's all right- I'll go check myself. Thank you," and I headed for the back of the house.

Royce _was_ on the terrace- standing by himself, leaning on the iron railing, looking out over the back garden, with a champagne flute on a table beside him.

I walked over to him- trying to keep my gait assured and a little annoyed.

"I didn't forget about you, if that's what you were thinking," he said, not looking at me.

I stopped beside him and stared.

He turned to me and smiled, "I was hoping you would come out here looking for me."

I stared at him questioningly.

He gestured to the flute, "It's ginger ale."

There was a warm flush creeping up from my chest- up my neck and to my hairline. Steadily, I asked, "Why did you want me to come out here looking for you?"

"I wanted to be alone with you for a minute," he said, leaning back against the railing, looking at me as if he was bashful. "Didn't want to share you with everyone else."

My stomach fluttered pleasantly and my blood whooshed in my ears. "You could have just asked, you know," I said, half-teasing, half-accusing. "You didn't have to disappear for thirty minutes and send me looking for you- if it wasn't for Nina I wouldn't have even come out here."

"Remind me to thank her later then," he said, smirking.

I shook my head subtly, confused, and knotted my eyebrows, still looking at him in a quizzical manner.

He stepped away from the railing and moved toward me, quietly saying, "God, Rosalie, you're so beautiful." At this, I let all suspicions and doubt flit away.

The flush was hot in my face, and I couldn't help but smile at his words. I looked down at the hem of my dress though, trying to be modest about it- trying to hide my blush.

Royce was suddenly close to me, so close I could easily reach out and touch him, but he touched me first, guiding my chin up with the crook of his bent finger.

"I'm going to kiss you now, Miss Hale," he whispered, his voice husky and light, his breath skittering across my face- sending my heart racing all across my body and in my brain.

I didn't say anything to that- couldn't even think of anything to say- but I managed to nod.

And then he was leaning in- his hand gently holding my waist- pressing his lips to mine and sending my eyes to a fluttering close.

* * *


	22. Of Carpenters and Kings

**Author's Note:** Special thanks to Caitlin, who is completely to blame for Royce's sister.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One  
Of Carpenters and Kings  
November 1, 1933-November 30, 1933**

* * *

After Halloween, Royce and I were officially a couple. We knew it, our friends and family knew it, everyone in Rochester knew it. We went out almost every night- to dances, parties, cotillions, dinners, everything. Whenever Royce went out on the town people expected me to be there, and whenever I was out people undoubtedly saw me on his arm. Because we were a couple- a two-for-one deal. But if people did happen to catch me without him, they asked where he was and how he was doing- as if we were already married. And because of this all my petty high school girlfriends flocked back to me. Gentlemen stopped asking for dates and I didn't get as many phone calls, but I didn't mind- they still looked and they still adored me, maybe even more so because I was all but officially off the market, and I loved any kind of attention I could get. Royce and I were a couple- a _dream_ couple, the _perfect_ couple- and everyone in Rochester knew and loved it.

Maybe we weren't the way Vera and Patrick were before they got married. Those two had _always_ been together- at Vera's parents' house or Patrick's parents' house, or out with friends, or taking walks alone or disappearing to do things I could only guess at and have long meaningful talks that I couldn't be a part of. That was a big difference. Royce and I weren't often alone- the way Vera and Patrick always had been and wanted to be- but that didn't bother me. We were a new couple and I didn't expect things to go in that direction yet. One day, sure, but I was happy with the way we were- in the center of attention, together, adored and constantly admired.

The one person- the _only_ person, of course- who didn't treat me differently once Royce and I were practically famous throughout Rochester, was Vera. She hadn't paid attention to the fame of the Kings to begin with, so it didn't make much difference to her- the fact that I was practically dating royalty. All she cared about was that I was happy. And I was. Whenever Patrick was at work- because I rarely saw Royce during the days anyway- I went over to her house and gushed about my beau and how wonderful and perfect he was. She laughed and listened and asked questions, and it was ideal. We'd play with Henry and I'd recount a dinner or a date, and it would be like we had always been together, only older, and it meant the world to me.

It was a week or two into November when Vera officially met Royce. I guess I had mentioned her more than a few times to him, because before dropping me off one night he told me he wanted to take Vera and her husband to dinner with me- to officially meet my friends. I had been so thrilled by the idea that I immediately set into daydreaming about Patrick and Royce being best friends and Vera thinking _my_ Royce was brilliant and wonderful for me. It never once occurred to me that Royce might expect something other than Patrick the carpenter, and Vera, the frankly rude and honest mother and house maker that had neither servant nor maid nor cook nor butler.

I still hadn't even considered that the next day, when I was at Vera's house for lunch and relayed Royce's invitation.

"He wants to take us to _dinner_?" she echoed back at me over our sandwiches and soup, sounding like I'd told her he wanted to clean her bed sheets and get her her slippers.

I nodded, "He wants to meet you and Patrick."

"Don't you paint a vivid enough picture for him?" she joked.

"Vera, I want you to meet him!" I told her enthusiastically. "And he wants to meet _you_!"

She shook her head and set down her spoon, holding back a sigh and saying, "Yes, but I don't know, Rosalie." Glancing over at Henry, sleeping in his chair at the foot of the table, she said, "Patrick's really tired when he gets home from work and Henry-"

"Your mom can watch him," I volunteered. "And Patrick will spare one night for dinner- he has to eat anyway, right?"

She looked at me for a moment, as if trying to figure something out, and then she gave in and smiled, saying, "Right."

"Good, so tell him Royce wants to meet the two of you and he's invited you to dinner," I declared. "Tell Patrick that he can get us into the best restaurants and he won't want to miss out."

Vera snorted. "Right, because Patrick cares about seeing and being seen."

I wrinkled my nose at her teasingly, and we both laughed.

* * *

Two days later, Royce took all three of us to an Italian restaurant on the river, called Bella Donna. Introductions outside of the restaurant were a little awkward and stilted- as all planned, first meetings are inclined to be. Patrick and Vera were dressed in their Sunday best- a tired looking suit and a no-longer-in-season dress- which, of course, didn't match up to Royce's crisp suit and my new silk dress. I felt a little embarrassed as I introduced my best friend and her husband- embarrassed by their clothes and their obvious discomfort at being placed in a world so different from their comfortable, easy way of life, embarrassed that I didn't have a best friend who was a little more glamorous and a little less housewife. And I did feel the sharpest lick of shame that I should have stooped to being so snobby, especially where my best friend was concerned- but I couldn't help it. With Vera and Patrick standing beside Royce outside of the restaurant, I couldn't help but note the contrast between them, and it made me look away quickly- to the lights above the restaurant's front door. To my relief, we quickly went inside and were seated at a table by the window, overlooking the river, and I brightened up considerably.

"Did you know that 'bella donna' means 'beautiful lady' in Italian?" Royce inquired as we picked up our menus, his voice velvety soft and deep as he leaned toward me and spoke for the whole table to hear.

I was about to say that I didn't know that- although I had some idea- but Vera spoke first.

"It's also one of the deadliest plants in the western hemisphere." She said it as if she truly thought the fact was worth sharing, but I felt it was crass and inappropriate- especially after what Royce had just so sweetly said- and I gave her a dirty look that she caught and knotted her eyebrows at.

Royce reacted smoothly though, and he smiled at her, saying, "Now, that, I knew- although somehow I've never thought about that while I've come here."

"People don't usually like to think of poisonous plants and the restaurants they're dining in at the same time," Patrick joked, causing all of us to laugh easily- even though I continued to watch Vera a little angrily.

For a quiet moment we all looked over our menus, just as the waiter appeared to ask us if we wanted any drinks.

"My father's best white, I think," Royce replied, looking around the table to see if Vera and Patrick would disagree.

They looked surprised, but Patrick said, "Ye-Yeah, that sounds great."

"Of course, sir," the waiter responded, bowing slightly and disappearing from the table.

We went back to our menus in silence, and as everyone thought over what they wanted, I looked up and peeked at everyone around the table. Vera looked a little uncomfortable- stiff and unsure in this setting- but Patrick just looked as if he was oblivious to how out-of-place he seemed, as if he could have cared less. Royce, of course, looked completely at ease and cool, and it made my heart swell. He must have recognized the way my friends looked- the way they didn't fit into this world at all- and he was still himself, still cool and unbothered- as if he didn't want to make anything of it- as if it didn't make a difference.

Patrick, still looking at his menu, asked, "What do you recommend, Royce?"

Never one to turn down an opportunity to show off and condescend, Royce replied, "The veal is a little pricey, but worth every penny if you ask me." He glanced down at his menu and said, "The scaloppini isn't half-bad either."

"Uh-huh," Patrick said, and my eyes flickered up just as he and Vera exchanged an amused and knowing glance.

Just then, the wine arrived and everyone immediately quieted and sipped at their glasses once they had been poured.

"So, Royce, you work at the bank?" Vera said.

He smiled- the way an adult would smile at a child when they didn't understand something- and he said, "Yes, well, I'm taking over for my father as overseer."

"Wow," she replied. "That's-" she looked to me and I shot her a threatening look. "That's wonderful."

Royce took a sip of wine and then asked, "And what do you do, Patrick?"

I clenched my napkin in my lap.

"I'm a carpenter."

Royce only looked the slightest bit suprised for a moment, before composing himself and saying, "I had no idea. Does that pay well- I mean, times are tight."

Not for Royce King they weren't.

I could see Patrick and Vera resisting the urge to exchange a look again. After pausing for a moment, Patrick calmly said, "It pays just fine. We don't need too much."

Royce nodded, smiling and saying, "That's nice."

He even almost had me convinced that he meant it.

* * *

After dessert, Vera and I went to the bathroom. We sat at the counter, checking our hair and make-up, sitting silently in our moment away from the boys.

But I didn't want to be silent. I was bubbling over with the need to know what Vera thought about Royce- desperate to hear her compliment him and tell me she thought he was the greatest thing on two legs, that she wanted me to marry him immediately and that she wanted our children to play together and be best friends too. But she didn't say anything, only repinned a curl, staring straight into the mirror, sending me into a frenzy of curiosity.

"So?" I finally prompted.

Her jaw tensed just slightly, and she said, "So what?" patting down the spot she had just pinned.

"What do you think of Royce?" I asked, hardly able to contain myself anymore- because, despite how the evening had begun, I thought the dinner had turned out well, and I was sure Vera and Patrick liked Royce and that everything would turn out the way I had imagined. "Isn't he gorgeous?"

She still didn't look at me, but said, "He's absolutely gorgeous," as she undid and repinned another piece of hair.

"But what else?" I continued. "What do you think of him, Vere?"

She shrugged, undoing the same curl- as if it was being difficult- and focusing all of her attention on straightening it out.

This didn't make sense.

This was _Vera_- never hold anything back or keep from telling the truth, no matter how hurtful or rude it may be Vera. Why did she suddenly have no opinion? Why didn't she have anything to say about Royce? Why was she suddenly reserved and shy? What was she holding back?

"Come on, Vera," I urged, taking hold of her arm and shaking it a little- snagging the curl in the process. "I want to know what you think about him!"

"He's fine," she said, sounding almost a little annoyed as she pulled the pin out again and fixed what I had messed.

I stared at her, my brows knitted, and echoed, "Fine?" Now I was getting annoyed, "Vera, tell me what you really think!"

"I told you, I think he's fine."

She still hadn't looked at me since entering the bathroom, and the realization dawned on me then.

"You're lying," I said, sounding a little surprised myself. "What, Vera- just tell me if you don't like him."

"Rosalie," she said, still not even looking in my direction. "I didn't-"

I cut her off, loudly saying, "Tell me the _truth_!"

"Fine!" she snapped, finally staring me straight in the eye. "No, I don't like him. He's pretentious and condescending and there's something about him that I don't trust." Upon seeing my shocked and wounded expression, she quietly asked, "Are you satisfied now?"

When I had recovered, I shook my head slowly, swallowing and saying, "You don't even know him."

"You asked my opinion," her voice was smaller as she turned back to the mirror and stared at her own reflection. "I'm sorry it's not what you wanted."

This was so far from how I had expected the night to turn out, and I felt so deflated by it that I thought I might cry. Instead, I composed myself and kept swallowing back my gut reaction, to cry and scream because things weren't going ideally- weren't going my way.

Almost whispering, Vera asked, "Are you ready to go back to the table?"

I nodded silently, and put on a bright face as we left the bathroom, ready to act normal and happy for the rest of the night. And it was fairly easy, because- for some unfathomable reason- I felt as if I couldn't be mad at Vera. I wanted to- I desperately did- but something kept me from feeling angry. Instead, I felt disappointed, wounded, let down. And I wanted to wallow and brood over my dashed hopes, but I was too stubborn to allow myself even that. Nor could I muster up the energy to lash out and let the blame fall hard on someone else. So I swept it all under the rug. As far as I was concerned, Vera and I had never spoken about Royce and her opinion of him- she had never told me she thought he was condescending and distrustful, she had never ruined our evening with her cold, hard honesty and lack of empathy. It was all a bad dream, I convinced myself, and I didn't need to dwell on it.

So, I didn't, and Vera and I never spoke about her opinion of Royce ever again.

* * *

The Kings invited my family and me to their estate for Thanksgiving. My mother and father were beside themselves. My brother's were looking forward to seeing how the supremely wealthy lived. And I was nervous beyond belief. After seeing Royce for almost two full months, this would be the first time that I would properly and officially meet his family, and the idea had my nerves pulled tight. So tight, in fact, that I hardly spoke to anyone on Thanksgiving Day- prior to us arriving at the King's home anyway. Once we arrived though, I forced myself to snap out of my nervous tension and be the charming and brilliant Rosalie I knew I was. Though, it was hard to find words when we first got there, because the King estate left me absolutely speechless.

It was massive- even bigger than Nina and Peter's house- made of gray-tan brick, with six windows in the walls of either side of the front door, which was set behind four, sturdy pillars. There were windows jutting out of the cherry-brown shingled roof as well, and all of them were bright and welcoming. The lawns out front were frosty in the November chill, but still emerald green underneath the ice, like the ivy that covered almost all of the outside stone in the front of the first floor, elegant and beautiful. The whole place oozed old money and regality, and my heart swelled for Royce that much more.

"Holy crow," Stanley shouted as he gaped out the window. "Who _is_ this guy, Rosalie?"

My mother smiled and smoothed back Stanley's hair, proudly saying, "He's a King, Stanley."

We were all silent then, as father pulled up along the circular driveway to the front door, where a valet helped us all get out and then took the keys from my father to bring it around the back of the house. Waiting for us was the King's butler, Milton- an older man with neat, gray hair and kind brown eyes. He welcomed us into the house and took our coats and hats.

"Rosalie!" Royce boomed, striding into the entrance hall to take my hands and kiss me on the cheek. Turning from me, he said, "Mr. Hale, Mrs. Hale, a pleasure to have you." He looked at my brothers, and said, "Stanley and Charles?" they nodded. "Nice to meet you both," and he awkwardly shook their hands.

It looked like he was about to say something else, but he was cut off by a woman's voice that said, "Royce, darling, don't make them stand around in the foyer."

Walking into the room was a beautiful woman in a sweeping dress of dark blue. Her blonde hair was rolled up expertly and she was wearing a long string of pearls that were knotted and swung almost to her stomach. She had dark blue eyes that smiled at us, and unblemished, cream-colored skin. She didn't look old, but she had an air of importance and maturity about her, and I instantly knew that she was Royce's mother.

"It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Hale, Mrs. Hale," she said, coming up beside Royce- just a few inches shorter than him- and shook both my parents' hands. "And Rosalie," she turned to me and smiled taking my hands in hers- almost unsure if she wanted to touch me at all- "my son will not stop talking about you." I smiled at her easily, and she continued, "It is wonderful to finally meet you and your family- this has been long overdue." Letting go of my hands she turned to her son, saying, "Royce, would you show everyone to the parlor while I go fetch your father?"

He said, "Of course," linked my arm in his and said, "Right this way," leading us out of the foyer, down a hall, and into a large, classically decorated parlor.

After we were all seated around the room- Royce and me on a loveseat, my parents and Charles on a sofa across from us, and Stanley on a stiff, armless chair- and each had a glass of warm cider, Mr. King and Mrs. King entered the parlor.

Mr. King was impressive, tall and daunting- a man that evoked fear and respect from everyone he came across. He had light, fading hair, low-set hazel eyes, and striking features. Though he wasn't very handsome, there was something about him that made you think he was extraordinarily good-looking and debonair. And when he entered the parlor that day, I felt that overpowering sense of awe and respect for him- but I was also a little afraid.

"Sorry for my tardiness," Mr. Royce said, striding up to my parents and shaking their hands. "I had a business call." He turned to the loveseat and his eyes rested on me. For a moment, I froze. But then he smiled and he came over to take my hand, saying, "Miss Rosalie." He lightly kissed the back of my hand and told me, "A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

"Thank you, Mr. King," I replied, finding my voice steady and calm. "And thank you for having us."

"Any friend of Royce's is a friend of the whole King clan," he told us, moving to sit in a straight-backed armchair that faced the whole room. His wife sat in a small chair angled toward him and he beckoned Milton over. "Bring Mrs. Hale and myself some cider."

Milton nodded and bowed himself out of the room.

When he was gone, Mr. King set about taking a cigarette from a case on the table and lighting up where he sat. When he had taken a nice drag from it, he settled himself in and smiled in satisfaction, saying, "So, Hale, it seems our two kids are fond of each other."

Royce took my hand in his and gave it a squeeze, and I found myself smiling easily. When I looked over at Father, I saw that he was smiling- a little nervously, but not enough for anyone but our family to see- and that Mother was beaming and nodding encouragingly beside him.

"That seems to be the case, Mr. King."

"Please, call me Royce, George," Mr. King replied. "We're not at the bank, we don't need to be formal here."

My father nodded and I could see the flush of pride and excitement spread across his face.

After a beat of silence, my mother cut in, saying, "Mrs. King-"

"Call me Elizabeth, please."

"Elizabeth," my mother practically squeaked. "You have a beautiful home."

Mrs. King looked pleased, but I noticed then that she didn't seem calm or at ease around us- for some reason she seemed to be stiff and uncomfortable. Regardless, she put on a smile and said, "Thank you so much, Jane."

"Mother likes to do the decorating herself," Royce said, proud and sweet. "She refused to let a decorator or a consultant do what she can do better."

My mother and father laughed, and I watched as Mrs. King's hard shell splintered away as she looked adoringly at her son and modestly waved away his compliment.

My mother said, "Well, you really have done a beautiful job."

Mrs. King bowed her head and smiled at my mother's words, seeming to be a little more at ease.

"George, have you thought at all about where you're going to send your boys to school?" Mr. King asked, just as Milton returned with his and his wife's drinks.

Father paused, then said, "They're still young yet, but Princeton would be ideal."

"Royce absolutely loved Princeton," Mrs. King put in. "And they adored him there."

I looked at him and smiled, squeezing his hand now.

"Do you have any other children, Elizabeth?" my mother inquired.

I felt Royce's hand stiffen in mine- felt his whole body go a little rigid beside me- and I saw his mother's perfect exterior falter.

"Helen- Royce's sister," she said, her voice catching just slightly. "She's goes to St. Bernadette's in Pennsylvania- a seminary for girls."

"How nice," my mother commented.

Mrs. King smiled in a pinched way, saying, "Yes, she spends the weekends with her grandparents in Pittsburgh as well- she's with them and some friends this weekend."

I noticed how everything had suddenly just fallen strained and uncomfortable, but I didn't know why. I glanced over at Royce, hoping he would explain it all away, but he didn't even look at me. His attention was focused completely on his mother. It unnerved me, but I quickly shook it away.

"Who would like some hors d'ouvres?" Mrs. King asked cheerily, standing up and looking around the room. "I'll just go round up Elsie and Peg and have them bring some in."

And just like that, she was sweeping out of the room and everything was silent in a matter of minutes.

"Rose, why don't you play us something on the piano?" Royce suddenly asked.

I turned to him, surprised, and stammered, "I don't-"

"Come on," Royce urged, smiling again. "Just a little something."

"Yes," Mr. King added. "Please, indulge us."

I looked over at my mother and father, who smiled at me encouragingly. I had taken piano lessons throughout grammar school and high school, and while I had never been exceptional, I was good. So, hoping to lighten the mood and please my parents, Royce, and his parents, I stood up and moved to the piano at the side of the room, and I played the first tune that came to mind.

Ironically enough, it was 'The Last Rose of Summer.'

* * *

After dinner and before dessert was served- when my family and Royce's parents were enjoying music and chess and each other's company in the parlor- Royce showed me around the King house. He showed me the library, filled with old, worn first editions, the latest almanacs and encyclopedias, antique maps, a set of brass telescopes and globes from different eras in history, and a cabinet filled with ancient artifacts. He showed me the hall in the back of the house, made of parquet floors and tall, glass doors that opened out onto a verandah. And he walked me around the verandah as well, showing me the backyard from where we stood- pointing out the gardens and the greenhouse and the lawns in between. Then, he took me upstairs.

There wasn't much to look at on the second floor, and he just led me straight to a room in the middle of the landing, opening the door and ushering me inside.

It was a boy's bedroom. Everything was plainly decorated, but there were personal- though somehow forced- touches all around the room. A Princeton flag was pinned to one wall, worn sports equipment was piled up on a chair in the corner, model airplanes were resting on the dresser- dusty and forgotten- and there were framed photographs set up along a desk. Royce closed the door behind us and walked into the room.

"This was my room," he said.

_Was_. I was reminded that he had moved out of the estate after college, and was now living on his own in a small townhouse in a different, younger neighborhood.

"Do you miss living with your parents?"

He shrugged and sat down at the end of the bed, saying, "I miss having everything taken care of for me, but I don't miss having rules and punishments from my father."

I smiled at him, "So you want all the irresponsibility of being a child, but none of the difficulties?"

"That sounds about right," he replied, laughing.

Teasingly, I rolled my eyes at him and then looked over at a football set up on a little gold stand on the dresser.

"Rosalie," Royce said quietly, his voice filled with yearning and adoration.

I looked over at him and watched his smile widen, feeling my heart leap at the sight of him- at his obvious feelings toward me.

"Come here," he said softly, and held his arms out to me.

Obediently, I went over to him and allowed him to pull me into his lap. It was innocent, and I felt comfortable enough with him that I had sat on his knee before.

Nuzzling my jaw with his nose, he whispered, "My parents love you."

I was surprised, and I excitedly blurted, "They do?"

He laughed and nodded, looking at me and saying, "Did you have any doubts?"

Biting my lip, I considered keeping my thoughts to myself. But then I thought of Vera and Patrick, honest and true and one-hundred-percent open with each other. So, I said- albeit shyly- "I felt a little like your mother was wary of me throughout the evening."

Royce shook his head, "Don't mind her." I knotted my eyebrows and he continued, "I've always been a bit of a mama's boy I guess- she just wants what's best for me."

I stiffened a little, pulling away slightly- as if the fact that I might not be what's best for him was making me recoil.

"No no, don't be silly," he laughed, pulling me closer to him. "She knows how I feel about you- she knows that I want to be with you- and she loves me enough that she never denies me what I truly want."

He didn't tell me she would learn that I was what was best for him, but I didn't say anything about it.

"She'll warm up to you- I'll make sure she does," he said, leaning in to nuzzle my cheek again.

I smiled, whispering, "You will?"

"Of course I will," he said into my hair. "I love you."

"You do?" I asked, my eyes lighting up and my tone bright.

He laughed and kissed me, "I do."

"I love you too," I whispered, and I did- after two months I was sure that I truly and completely did.

He smiled and pulled my face to his, covering my mouth with his lips. I smiled against the kiss and encircled my arms around his neck, pulling him closer to me in return. And suddenly- with the slightest interest from me- his kiss was hot and furious. His hands were no longer cupping my face, but on my waist, grabbing at me, desperate. And the feelings stirring inside me startled me. I was afraid and uncomfortable, but it felt good too- it felt like the beginning of a fire that was meant to burn- and this feeling blotted out all others, so I let my hands roam through his hair.

We had kissed before- had shared small kisses and long, passionate kisses- but this was different. The fury and desperation with which Royce was touching me was startling. It was awakening and it was thrilling and it was too much and it was not enough. This wasn't a summer crush on Vera's cousin Warren, or a fling with Will for a few months, this was real- this was something I didn't know and couldn't define. This excited me and, in turn, scared me, but it was also something I immediately wanted to know more of.

Because of this, I continued kissing Royce- allowed his kisses to linger down my neck and back to my lips- his tongue pushing it's way into my mouth- his breath commingling with mine.

And suddenly there was a knock at the bedroom door, making me pull away from Royce and jump to my feet like I had been burned. I looked to Royce, who looked like he was frustrated and relieved and angry all at once.

"Mr. King?"

Calmly, reserved now, Royce called, "Yes?"

"Your parents have sent me to fetch you," the maid said through the door. "They wanted me to tell you that dessert is being served."

"Thank you," he said curtly, and we listened to her feet as they scurried away.

Royce looked over at me, standing a foot or two away from him, breathing heavily, guilt painted across my face like a beacon, and he forced a smile. Standing, he smoothed his hair and straightened his shirt, and said, "We better get back to the party."

I nodded and smoothed down my hair, hoping the rest of me was presentable.

Royce led me out of the room and back to our families, but it was hard for me to enjoy the rest of the night. Because now the throbbing of desire I had felt for him had been completely smothered by guilt and discomfort- because I knew so little, and I felt so much.

* * *


	23. Bound

**Author's Note:** Sorry that you guys are getting rapid-fire updates here, but I plan on having the first part of the story finished by Wednesday and I need to get the chapters before that up, pronto. Hope you like chapter twenty-two!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two  
Bound  
December 1, 1933-December 24, 1933**

* * *

Things were moving very fast- frighteningly and thrillingly fast. It had all happened so quickly; every aspect of it. One moment I hadn't even known Royce, and the next, my room was a rose garden and people were asking about an engagement. Out of what seemed like nowhere, my parents were acting as if Royce was already their son, my brothers wanted to go to Princeton and grow up to be like him, Mr. King was calling me his Rose, and Mrs. King was inviting me to tea and shopping excursions. Our families were meshing and it was as if everyone was following a snap order that I didn't feel was natural, but I followed along just the same. Because, despite the speed of things, I was finally feeling like an adult. It was finally about me again. People didn't look at me and feel bad because all of my friends were getting married and having babies- people asked about _me_, my relationship with Royce, and they complimented my beauty more and more, and I finally felt like I could breathe again.

Things weren't all perfect though. To say the least.

I didn't see Royce at all during the week that followed Thanksgiving. This was partly because I didn't try to contact him until the fourth of December- when I was feeling less guilty and more ignorant of my own feelings. But when I did try to call him then, he didn't answer. It wasn't until two days later that he called me back.

"I'm sorry, Rose," he told me. "I've been busy with the bank- things got a little slack around here with the holiday and I'm trying to get everything up to date."

Even though I had ignored him the first few days following Thanksgiving, I was still hurt by his neglect then. The fact that he couldn't make time for me- even when work was busy, and even for a week- made me feel a little wounded. But I said, "Oh."

I heard him talking to someone away from the phone, about a statement of some kind, and I remembered that he was at work, but I wouldn't leave him alone just yet.

"Maybe we could do something tonight," I suggested. "We could just walk along the river for a bit, or-"

"I don't know if I'll have time tonight, Rosalie," he said, his voice flinty and absent.

I knotted my eyebrows and anxiously looped the telephone wire around my finger. "Oh, all right," I said. "I guess we can do something when you have more time then."

"Why don't I take you shopping this weekend?" he offered, sounding as if he was hopeful- as if his suggestion would dismiss me happily. "You can get anything you want- my treat."

He sounded so harried and stressed- and he wanted to buy me things and make me happy- so I said, "All right."

"Great," he replied. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay."

And he hung up. No 'I love you,' No good-bye. Just a click, and the line was dead.

* * *

By the weekend, I was fine. Royce had called me throughout the week, continuously apologizing for his busy schedule and his neglect. I told him it was fine each time, and he would proceed to complain about employees and sometimes his father, about how stressed he was with work and his friends- who complained that he didn't go out enough, that he wasn't any fun. And I curled up on the armchair by the telephone and I listened. I quietly reassured him that things would get easier, that his friends just didn't understand him, that his father would appreciate him in time. And he didn't thank me or ask me how I was, but I stupidly felt like he didn't need to. He would return the favor in time, I was sure, and I felt content in that. I was helping him cope with his problems. This was what couples did.

And on Saturday afternoon he picked me up and took me shopping.

First, we went to the jewelers and he had me pick out whatever I wanted from the store's collection. I walked along the display cases and peered through the glass tops, feeling overwhelmed by the opportunity before me. There were diamonds and precious gems, gold and silver, and I couldn't even begin to choose something. It was all so gloriously beautiful and unreal, but also impossibly expensive.

I turned to Royce who was trailing a little ways behind me, and I said, "I can't let you buy me anything."

"Why not?" he asked, smirking a little.

"Royce, everything costs a fortune!"

He shrugged and said, "You're worth it." I smiled and felt my heart swell. I was worth his buying my love. "Go on," he nodded toward the whole of the store. "Anything you like."

Eventually, I decided on a pearl choker with a gold clasp- perfectly understated, but still beautiful.

As the jeweler was about to arrange it in a black box, Royce stopped him and said, "Leave the box."

I looked at him and the jeweler knitted his eyebrows saying, "Sir?"

"She'll wear it out."

"Out of the store?" I asked, putting a hand to my throat.

He smiled and reached for the necklace, which the other man handed over, and he said, "Why not show it off right away?"

I laughed and shrugged, saying, "Okay."

He gestured for me to turn around, and I did so, lifting my hair and allowing him to circle the pearls around my neck and lock the cool gold clasp in the back.

When I had turned back around Royce smiled at me and the jeweler said, "Absolutely beautiful."

I fingered the pearls at my throat and smiled modestly.

Royce offered his arm, saying, "Thank you, sir" to the clerk. And as I wound my arm around his, he said, "Let's see what else we can find to compliment your absolute beauty."

* * *

That day, Royce bought me six huge shopping bags full of things. Two cocktail dresses, an afternoon dress, a day skirt, four new pairs of heels, three hats, a sweater, a set of scarves, five new pairs of gloves- all in different materials and colors- and two jackets. His driver had to make several trips to get everything into the house, where my mother stood- eyes shining with envy and delight- watching the whole procession. And once everything was filling up the living room- when my mother had kindly bowed out to the kitchen and Royce's driver had gone back to the car- Royce took my hands in his and smiled.

"I hope you like all your new things," he said, his voice slightly teasing.

I squeezed his hands, saying, "I do- I absolutely love everything."

"Good," he replied. "I'm glad I could make you happy."

He reached up with one hand to smooth my hair, and I watched him in silence- feeling the stirrings of love and adoration inside me.

Quietly, he said, "I have to go now-"

"What?" I asked, snapped out of my bliss. "But I thought you could stay for dinner- my brothers would love-"

"I would, Rose, really, but I have a ton of things to do," he said. "Maybe some other time, okay?"

Without being able to help it, I pouted.

He frowned, "Come on, don't be upset." I didn't smile or relent. "We had such a good day, don't spoil it."

I didn't smile, but I loosened the downturn of my lips.

"There," he said. "We'll have plenty of time for dinner and dessert and lunch and tea and anything else you want- just as soon as I have some more free time, all right?"

I nodded reluctantly, and he gently kissed me.

"I'll see you later," he said, turned, and left the house.

I stood there, amidst my bags and boxes, feeling strangely abandoned. Moments ago I had felt filled to the brim with happiness and relief. All day I had felt such a lifting sense of peace that I was sure I was glowing from the inside out. I had all these brand new things- all these pretty things that were mine, gifts- because Royce loved me. In that moment I told myself that I should have felt happier, scolded myself for feeling upset in any way when I had new things to wear and a new choker to show off. But no matter what I told myself internally, there was still a crawling loneliness and cold that were seeping under my skin and up my spine. And I instantly wanted to be with someone. Not my mother or my brothers or even Cooky. And I needed a friend- just someone I felt comfortable with, someone who could make me feel less lonely.

Picking my way through all of the bags, I grabbed my purse off the table in the hall and left the house without a word or a passing thought.

* * *

Vera was surprised to see me at her front door. I didn't blame her though, it had been nearly a month since we had properly seen one another. Aside from a call here and there, her first meeting with Royce had caused something of a rift between us- a silent, unspoken rift, but a rift nonetheless. And so, she had immersed herself in her life with Patrick and Henry, and I had floated through my life with Royce. But there was something missing without Vera, and I felt it then- when she opened her door and looked at me with slightly widened blue eyes. And even though her hair was a bit of a mess, she was wearing a ratty dress for cleaning, and was holding a gurgling Henry with slight distraction, she had never looked more welcome or friendly.

"Rosalie," she said, the surprise lining my name.

I smiled sheepishly, saying, "I hope it's okay that I'm here- I felt like saying hello."

She stared at me for a minute, still a little shocked, but then came to and- with relief- said, "Of course- No- Come on in!" And she stepped aside, holding the door back for me.

We went into the parlor, where a thick quilt was set up on the floor, stuffed animals and toys laying along the perimeter. Vera placed Henry down in the center of the blanket, on his stomach, and straightened up.

She asked, "Do you want something to drink or eat?"

"No, I'm fine," I said, shaking my head.

We stood in silence for a brief moment, before she said, "Sit-sit." I sat on the sofa nearest me, and she sat on the armchair set up close to the blanket. She had a basket of sewing on the chair that she placed at her feet, absently saying, "I was just doing some mending."

I nodded, saying, "Oh."

We sat quietly for a long minute, and I looked down at Henry, who was wriggling around on his forearms and knees, gurgling and cooing at the teddy bear whose foot was caught in his grasp.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Vera finally said.

I looked up and met her gaze, saying, "Things have been busy."

"Yeah, they have," she agreed.

Another long beat of awkward silence.

"But it's good to see you."

I smiled, "It's good to see you too."

Quiet.

"So what's new?" I asked. "How's Patrick?"

She smiled and said, "He's good- really happy that Will's moving back to town."

"Will's moving back?" I asked, hardly feeling any tug of longing or envy anymore.

"He finally found a house," she said, nodding. "But he and Allie are back in Cairo until February."

Interested, I asked, "When's the wedding?"

"Not until summer, I think," she said. "They haven't decided for sure yet."

"Who's invited? Do you know?" I asked.

Smirking a little, she said, "Don't worry, I'm sure you are."

I narrowed my eyes at her scoldingly, replying with, "That's not what I was worried about."

"Oh please, you'll be salivating to see how they do it- Allie's dress, her hair, the flowers, the decorations, the venue." She clucked, "Can't get past me."

I laughed out loud, because those were the things I was wondering after, and I said, "You forgot about the music- I also need to find out what kind of music they'll have."

We laughed together, and things were good- as if the problem with her opinion of Royce had never even occurred.

* * *

I went to the opera for the first time in mid-December. Royce had invited me only a few days after our shopping excursion and I had been so pleased that he wanted to spend time with me again that I couldn't refuse. But the moment I slid into the back of the car beside him when he picked me up, I knew he was in a bad mood and I knew the evening would be blemished by it.

"What is it?" I asked, as we started down the street, Royce ignoring me to frown and scowl out the window.

He didn't say anything.

"What's wrong?"

Still staring out the window, he mumbled, "Nothing."

Unsure whether or not I should continue to push the matter, I fell silent beside him. He was probably stressed from work and everything and I didn't want to bother him further with irritating chatter and probing questions.

So we drove to the opera house in silence, and we got out of the car in silence, and we entered the lobby in silence, and we found our seats in silence, neither stopping to acknowledge acquaintances or say hello to friends. And I tried to ignore it- how tensely uncomfortable and unnatural I felt, how I didn't know how to help Royce and make him smile, and therefore, felt stupid and useless- but it was really hopeless. Because of this, I had trouble enjoying the first act. I was too preoccupied with Royce, his sighing every few minutes, his folding his arms over his chest, his jaw tensing, his rigid presence. I didn't know what to do and I felt stuck and helpless.

And then intermission came.

As the lights rose in the house, Royce stood and made to leave the box.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

He replied, "To get a drink," so I got to my feet and followed him.

Downstairs at the bar the bartender gave me a champagne- one of the only alcoholic drinks I was beginning to allow myself- and Royce a club soda.

"You don't want any champagne?"

He shook his head and looked away from me, downing his soda with a grimace and saying, "I don't like the taste."

I nodded an understanding and gingerly sipped from my glass.

"Well, look who it is!" said a voice teasingly, though cheerfully as well.

Turning, I saw Royce's parents and three other couples approaching.

"I didn't know your parents would be here," I said to Royce, just as the eight adults stepped up to us.

"We just got the tickets today," Mrs. King said. "Mr. Bedell invited us."

Royce looked like he wanted to scream, he was grinding his teeth together and glaring at his father. In return, Mr. King was scowling at him. And I realized that they must have had a fight before the show.

Playing the charmer for both of us, I said, "How nice," and smiled brilliantly.

"I don't believe we've met," one of the men said.

"Oh, Mr. Bedell," Mrs. King stepped in. "This is Rosalie Hale."

Mr. Bedell shook my hand and smiled, "A pleasure, Miss Hale."

Swallowing down a gulp of scotch, Mr. King said, "Isn't she a beauty, Michael?"

"Charming, indeed," Mr. Bedell said, and I smiled politely.

Beside me, Royce had taken in a breath through his nose and seemed to be holding himself back- I was sure I could feel him shaking beside me.

"Royce, my boy," another one of the gentlemen said. "How's the big, bad bank treating you?" Chuckling, he continued, "Your old man here says it's driven you a little crazy."

The adults laughed over their drinks, except for Mrs. King, who looked at Royce with a smile that hid sympathy and hurt.

The way Royce was staring at his father made me realize this was probably why he was angry- something to do with seniority and his father and the bank. I knew what could help, and I knew I was more than capable of relieving Royce's bad mood by stepping in and doing something.

"Actually," I cut in- before Royce could stop glaring at his father and even open his mouth. "Royce did mention how much work it is to do what you do, Mr. Hale."

The two King men broke their gaze to look at me.

Mr. King said, "Oh?"

Royce looked at me with knitted eyebrows and a shock of annoyance.

"Lately, whenever I want to go to lunch or out dancing, he reminds me that he has responsibilities to the bank- that he has to devote his time to establishing his position and making a difference in Rochester," I fibbed.

Mr. Bedell said, "Royce, you must be a fool to turn down this young lady for a bunch of old geezers playing with money!"

Everyone laughed, but I just smiled and said, "I don't mind- I'm proud of what he does," and I hugged his arm to me, smiling up at him. He looked back at me in wonder and surprise. "And I know you must be too, Mr. King."

Mr. King looked like he couldn't figure something out, and when I spoke to him directly, he only looked at me.

"I am certainly proud of him," Mrs. King said, giving me a look of praise and admiration. "My Royce being so responsible."

I smiled back at her and I knew she saw what I was doing- diffusing the bomb that was the King men- and I knew that she was impressed.

"Well, then," one of the other men said. "To Royce and his responsibility," and he rose his glass.

"The bank is in good hands," the other man said, raising his glass as well.

I rose my glass and echoed everyone else's, "To Royce!"

And he looked at me, awed and amazed, and he didn't acknowledge anyone else, he just leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

* * *

"Come on, tell me," I begged of Royce, pulling on the cuffs of his jacket as we stood near the huge, elaborately decorated tree in the King's parlor on Christmas Eve. All around us, guests mingled and laughed, sipping eggnog and reveling in the holiday spirit and gaiety that filled the King's party. I, on the other hand, was demanding for Royce to tell me what my present was. "I'm getting it tonight, aren't I?"

He laughed, taking my hands in his and lightly kissing me, "You are, but you need to be patient."

"It's a _gift_, I can't be patient!"

"Royce, did you give her the pony yet?" Nina asked, coming up to us and slinging an arm around his shoulder.

My eyes bulged. "You got me a pony?!"

"No," he laughed. "Don't listen to her."

Nina made a face and traipsed away.

"Well, whatever it is, when will I get it?" I asked with a smile, bouncing on my heals.

He tapped my nose with the tip of his index finger and said, "Soon."

"All right, everyone!" Mrs. King announced, herding all of the guests to cramp into the parlor. "Time for gifts!"

I looked to Royce, as if asking whether or not I would be getting my gift now, but he only laughed and pulled me to one of the sofas, where I sat down with my parents. Royce helped his mother distribute the gifts- really, just elaborate party favors- to all of the guests, while Mr. King looked on languidly. All of the women received a necklace or a bangly bracelet of some kind, as well as a scarf or leather fur-lined gloves. The men all got engraved cuff links and imported cigars. Everyone got a bag or a box of chocolates and a Christmas ornament as well, because when the Kings did Christmas, they did it well.

However, by the time everyone had opened their gifts and were cooing over the things they had received, I was still sitting empty-handed. I felt a little embarrassed, because there were dozens of people I knew- and even more that I didn't know- in that room, watching me as I watched everyone else smiling and simpering over their new things.

And then Royce stood in the front of the room- in front of the brightly lit Christmas tree- and he cleared his throat. The guests all quieted down and looked toward him. Beside me, my mother squeezed my elbow and I looked back at her curiously. My father, beside her, looked proud and a little melancholy. I was confused, but they didn't say anything, so I just turned back to Royce.

"I hope nobody minds, but I would like to take this opportunity to give a gift to the most beautiful woman in my life," he said, looking to me. He picked up a huge box from under the tree and brought it over to me, saying, "Merry Christmas," and kissing my cheek."

I smiled at him, about to say thank you when my mother cut in with: "Open it!"

He nodded his encouragement so I pulled the ribbon free from the box, and then set about tearing at the wrapping. When the box was naked, I saw that it was plain- ordinary and brown, free of any insignia or names- so I lifted the lid. Inside, I found tissue paper. I only had to sift through the paper for a few seconds, before I found another box within the first. When I pulled it out everyone in the room laughed, and I looked at Royce, my eyes questioning and my smile amused.

"Go on," he urged.

So, I lifted the lid of the second box, only to find more tissue paper. Underneath this tissue paper was another smaller box.

The guests in the room laughed again.

I narrowed my eyes at Royce, but he said, "Keep going."

So I did. I went through several boxes- my mother helping to clean up and collect all of them beside me- all filled with tissue paper and another smaller box, before I came to the final one- a small, octagonal-shaped black box with a little gold hook to keep it closed. My mother took the last brown box from me and I held the black one, staring at it in wonder and confusion, my heart thumping excitedly in my chest.

_I can't be.... It's not...._ My thoughts were frantic and clipped, too excited and suddenly nervous to be able to fully form.

Gently, Royce took the tiny black box from my hands and knelt on one knee before me. Though he was gazing at me, I was transfixed on the box- rapt in all it symbolized and all it meant.

"Rosalie Hale, marry me," he said, just as he skillfully unclasped the box and eased it open, making me gasp in the now-hushed room as the ring inside glittered in the firelight. The diamond was huge, round, and set in a sturdy gold band that had intricate flower patterns engraved in it. It was so beautiful and elegant that it took my breath away.

I looked up from the ring and searched his eyes. In the pale blue of his irises, I didn't see an overwhelming sense of love, but before me I did see a handsome, wealthy, perfect man- my prince charming come to life- and suddenly I could see him as my husband. It wasn't hard to imagine myself as Mrs. Rosalie King- I had daydreamed enough about it in the last two months to find it easy to roll the idea around in my head at that moment. But, did I see myself with him forever? Did I see Royce doing the things Patrick did for Vera? Would he take care of me when I was sick? Would he help me when our children cried? I couldn't see it, and in the briefest of moments I felt the stirrings of doubt in my stomach. But then there was Vera and Patrick, already married with Henry, and Will, getting married in the summer, and I wanted that- couldn't bear to be left behind anymore. And I desperately wanted that love and I wanted to be with someone forever and have beautiful babies. And wouldn't it be wonderful if those babies could play on the lawn of the King's estate? It would be everything I ever dreamed of- everything I had ever wanted, and it was all happening- all unfolding in that moment on Christmas Eve.

Glancing down at the ring- his smile still intact- Royce explained, "It's been in my family for generations, and I hope you'll be the next to wear it."

A lump formed in my throat and I couldn't help the tears that welled in my eyes. And I was so happy, but I thought it was strange because I didn't feel fulfilled love or hope for the future- instead, I felt this wonderfully enlightening sense of relief, like a huge weight had been lifted from me.

"Will you marry me, Rosalie?"

The room was silent around me. Everyone was waiting for an answer.

I thought of Patrick sweetly kissing Vera when he thought I wasn't looking. I thought of little Henry- and then, strangely, the Lindbergh baby, so angelic and sweet and golden. My children would look like him, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, sweet and beautiful. I could have it all with Royce. I wanted it all with Royce. I loved him and I wanted all of it with him.

"Yes," I whispered, a tear dribbling out of my eye, my face filled with a wide grin. "Yes! Of course I'll marry you!" and I threw my arms around his neck, pulling him toward me.

He pulled away and smiled, taking the ring from the box and grasping my left hand in his. "May I?" he asked, poising the ring just near my ring finger.

I nodded eagerly and he slipped the ring on for me. It fit perfectly, and it felt so right that I was sure my heart was swelling in my chest, ready to burst from happiness.

Leaning in, he kissed me firmly, and then pulled away to stand up and take my hand in his. I stood beside him and looked over the smiling faces staring back at us. "We're getting married!" Royce announced- as if no one in the room had witnessed the whole thing.

Everyone clapped and whistled and cheered, and Royce put his hand around my waist. I looked at my mother's shining face and my father's grin, filled with pride, and I saw all the people in the room that I didn't know and the one's I felt like I did- Nina and her brother Peter, Royce's friends, Clark, Freddie, and Beth. And, though something unsettled me, I was so completely happy and overjoyed that I hardly even noticed it.

My life was beginning, and I felt like I could finally breathe once again.

* * *


	24. Ring Around the Rosie

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three  
Ring Around the Rosie  
December 26, 1933-March 29, 1934**

* * *

I didn't get a chance to see Vera until the day after Christmas, when I went over her house so we could talk over tea. She had received a call from me after midnight on Christmas Eve- when I returned home from the King's party, practically oozing with excitement- and I had told her about my engagement. Though I could tell she still didn't like Royce, she had sounded truly happy to hear me so exuberant and hopeful. Before hanging up she suggested I come over for tea the day after Christmas- when the holiday parties were over. She assured me that Patrick wasn't working and he would be taking Henry to his parents' so we'd have all afternoon to ourselves. I readily agreed- looking forward to bragging about how Royce had proposed and discussing dress patterns- and told her I'd see her then.

That afternoon, Vera patiently listened as I recounted my Christmas Eve, gushed about Royce, fantasized a little about the wedding, and yammered about what my life would be like as Mrs. Royce King. In a completely uncharacteristic move, she kept her true opinions of Royce and the whole thing to herself, opting, instead, to smile politely and sip her tea while I went on and on.

However, when I had taken a breath and was silent for a moment, she finally stepped in, saying, "I actually wanted to talk to you about being married to Royce."

My heart picked up slightly in my chest, adrenaline pumping as I figured I would have to defend Royce against Vera's opinion in a moment's notice. "Oh?"

"I just- It's- um-" Vera stammered, and I noticed for the first time that she actually seemed _nervous_, which left me a little surprised. She met my eyes and then averted her gaze again, saying, "I was- I was just wondering if your mother ever- Did your mother ever talk to you about _being married_?"

When her eyes met mine again my brow pulled together in confusion. "I don't know what you.... No?"

I was confused- completely, innocently, naively, ignorantly confused.

"Your mother never talked to you about what would-" Vera cleared her throat, her cheeks tinged pink. What was this? I wondered. Vera was never embarrassed by anything. "Your mother never talked to you about your wedding night?"

This made the heat rush up my neck and face- made me turn my eyes from Vera, to stare at the grain of the kitchen table. "Oh," I mumbled. "No, she never has."

I knew where the conversation was going. It was leading to places that made me nervous and flustered- to things that our parents had kept from us, but we had always found a way around. This conversation was going straight to what I had felt with Royce's hands on me- his lips and tongue searching my mouth- on Thanksgiving. I didn't know how I knew for sure, but it was just what I naturally thought of, and it sent my heart racing and my palms sweating.

"Rosalie, I just wanted to explain some things to you," Vera said.

Shaking my head just slightly, I said, "You don't have to do that-"

"No, I do," she said, not so nervous anymore. "Because I know there's a lot you don't understand." I almost protested indignantly here, but she continued on, saying, "There was a lot _I_ didn't understand before I married Patrick either."

I waited patiently- uncomfortably- and didn't meet her eyes.

Vera chewed on the inside of her lip for a moment, before continuing. When she spoke again, she said, "There is so much our parents don't teach us- so much that they keep us from and keep from us...." She sighed, "I don't want to be your mother here- I don't think I need to give you any kind of talk about what goes on in the bedroom." My skin was hot- flaming pink by then- and I was unbearably uncomfortable. "I just want you to know that it isn't bad- it isn't all the delicate topic our parents make it out to be."

I looked up and saw the small smile that was playing between her lips. I didn't really understand what she was trying to say, so I said, "Vera, do you...." I wanted to ask her what it was like, what it _was_, but I wouldn't let myself be that naive. "Do you think I can be happy with Royce?" I asked instead.

My best friend stared at me for a moment, and then she smiled sadly and said, "I hope you can, Rose- I _really_ hope you can."

* * *

After New Year's, my mother and Mrs. King insisted we sit down and discuss the wedding. So, on the Saturday following New Year's day, Mother and I went to the King's estate, sat down with some tea, and smiled stupidly at one another.

Until finally, Mrs. King spoke. "I suppose the first order of business should be picking a date."

"A summer wedding could be nice," I said, looking over at Royce- who was sitting beside me- for confirmation.

He nodded, "Whatever you want, Rose."

"Perhaps spring?" my mother put in. "Spring _is_ the perfect season for weddings."

Mrs. King took a sip of tea and nodded, "Spring would be lovely- maybe in April or May?"

They both looked to Royce and me. In turn, I looked to him. He seemed surprised, and then he laughed it off, saying, "Whatever you ladies decide is fine by me."

"Rosalie?" Mrs. King prompted. "What do you think?"

"Well, I suppose spring would be nice," I put in amiably.

My mother nodded encouragingly.

"Of course, if we had it in the spring it wouldn't be a very long engagement," Mrs. King added.

Royce shook his head and put an arm around me, saying, "We don't need a long engagement."

"And we could have it right here! In the garden!" Mrs. King declared. "We could have some beautiful flowers brought in- any flowers you'd like, Rosalie- and some lights put up and the fountain could be moved- it will be absolutely beautiful!"

It all sounded amazing, and I was nearly squirming in delight at the thought.

My mother- who was nearly crying with happiness- said, "A garden wedding in the spring sounds absolutely divine!"

Everyone looked to me expectantly.

A spring wedding? Married in four months? It was all so sudden- so quick, another snap decision- like my whole relationship with Royce. I wondered if we shouldn't wait a little longer- some more time to get to know one another better, to pull the perfect wedding into place. But then again, Royce was my Prince Charming, and I wanted all that Vera had and more. I wanted a sweet marriage and my beautiful, angelic babies, forever and ever. Besides, I knew my mother and Mrs. King could do a perfectly wonderful spring wedding in four months.

"Is April too soon?"

Mrs. King and my mother smiled and assured me that it was plenty of time, and they began chattering together about decorations and guests. And Royce turned to me and kissed me- not as sweetly or as gently as Patrick kissed Vera- but kissed me in a way that reminded me that I _did_ love him.

* * *

Mrs. King and my mother proved that they were forces to be reckoned with.

By the start of February, almost half of the wedding had been planned. The minister was all set. The music- a whole orchestra and a big band- was booked for the night. The caterers cleared their schedule for the week of the reception. The bakery was waiting for us to choose the type of cake we wanted. The florist was having the most gorgeous roses sent in from out of town, just in time for the wedding. And all I needed to do was sit back and watch it all happen- watch the perfectly extravagant wedding I had always wanted fall into place before me- choosing from the options Mrs. King gave to me, deciding for Royce and myself whenever necessary. And I was happy- so, so happy and content.

I no longer felt achingly jealous of Patrick and Vera. Having my own Henry was no longer something I coveted. If anything, I felt _bad_ for my best friend. I had Royce King, Rochester royalty- handsome, wealthy, charming, willing to give me everything I wanted. I would have children- adorable, angelic children- they would play on the lawns of the estate and they would be Kings, they would want for nothing. I had everything Vera had and more, how could I possibly be jealous?

But, still, all was not well.

I didn't see much of Royce- not unless there was a party he needed to attend or a show he had been invited to.

At first I thought it was because of all the planning Mrs. King and my mother had ensnared me in, but then I noticed I didn't even see him on the days we had nothing planned, and it bothered me. And because I always got my way, I insisted we go out to dinner one night in early February- when my father told me things at the bank were slow- when I shoved that fact in Royce's face and took satisfaction in the fact that he couldn't get out of it. So we went to Bautiste- because Royce could always make me forgive him for neglecting me if he took me there and reminisced about our first date- and then he took me dancing, taking care to be particularly doting and sweet.

We stayed out until nearly midnight. Then we walked home- through the park again- like it really was our first date. And Royce held my hand the way I loved, and he kept the conversation light.

Until, of course, I decided to take control of that.

"You know," I said. "You're not going to get away with neglecting me that easily."

Royce looked at me and asked, "Why? Didn't you have a good time?"

"Of course I did," I replied, feeling indignant and hurt. "But, there's more to it than that."

Teasingly, he said, "Like what?"

I pouted at him as we walked along the pathway in the park, stopping and tugging him toward me. He turned to look me in the eye as I complained, "It's just- I feel like I never see you anymore, and when I do it's in the middle of a room full of people and I never have your full attention."

Frowning, he slid his hands up my arms, resting them at my elbows, "Rosalie, you know how busy I am at the bank," he said. "I love you, but you know how important my responsibilities are to me."

Wasn't he feeding me the exact spiel I had given in his defense months before- to a group of men poking fun at him for being too young to deal with the stresses of the bank?

"I know," I replied. "It's just- We never get any time for.... us."

What I meant was that we never got time to just sit and talk- to get to know one another, talk about our hopes and dreams, what we hated, who we were. We never got a chance to be comfortable with one another.

Royce laughed at that and moved his hands to gently hold my face, saying, "We're always us."

"No," I insisted, pulling away from him, "you're not listening!"

He looked surprised by this- my sudden outburst- and I saw the slightest blink of annoyance flash behind his eyes.

"I'm listening," he said, his voice controlled.

I gained some composure then, breathing deeply, and I said, "I just wish I saw more of you- just you, no one else."

He smiled at my surrendering tone and took me in his arms- mere feet from the merry-go-round- and he said, "You're seeing me now."

"Yes, but-"

"I like showing you off, Rose," he said, his voice low and his smile easy. "I like to be with you in rooms full of people- I like it when people envy me because I have you." This made my breath catch in my throat. He had hit my weak spot: admiration. Knowing that he had me, he asked, "Is that so wrong?"

I stared into his eyes for a moment, not saying or doing anything. Then, I realized how much I liked that too- being seen on Royce's arm, having people admiring and envying us. How could I tell him that was wrong? How could I reproach him for wanting to be around people when we were together, when I loved it so much myself?

Melting right before him, I said, "No. It's not."

"I love you, Rose," he said. "And soon we'll be married, and we'll have all the time in the world."

My heart fluttered at the idea, and I smiled.

Royce stared at me for a moment, his face sobering slightly, and he said, "God, you're beautiful."

I blushed slightly- he was so close, his arms still wrapped around me, and I felt like I was under sudden scrutiny.

"Your eyes are like violets," he said.

Looking up, I met his eyes again, feeling a longing for him- and not just physically- that was almost too much for me to understand.

He smiled again. "You know something?" he asked. "We're going to have supremely beautiful children."

I laughed at this, though I secretly relished the idea.

"How could they not be beautiful? With you as their mother," he said.

I gazed into his eyes and was lost there- so completely smitten with him that I was instantly drowning in his baby blue irises.

Slowly, he leaned in and kissed me, his lips warm and welcoming against my own, his hand pressing me to him at the small of my back.

At first the kiss was slow and careful- Royce's lips tentative against my mouth- as if he was holding himself back, but then I pressed a hand to his chest and it was Thanksgiving all over again. His tongue was darting into my mouth, his hands moving, clutching, angry against my body, and my head was swimming as my breath escaped me- hot and quick. My body tingled with anticipation and longing, but then Royce seemed so furious and desperate for me- for all of me- that it frightened me a little.

And I thought of Vera- talking to me like a concerned mother- in the middle of her empty kitchen.  
_  
I just want you to know that it isn't bad- it isn't all the delicate topic our parents make it out to be._

No, this- what was happening between Royce and I- wasn't delicate at all. It was rough and furious and I wondered if it was the way it went between Patrick and Vera. It made anxiety curdle in my stomach- left me unsettled and a little sick- but Royce was so determined against me, his hands roving up my stomach, that I felt it wasn't right to pull away. And yet, at the same time, it felt so wrong to stay pressed up against him the way I was.

And suddenly, Royce's hands were no longer on my stomach, they were hovering, lowering, grazing the softest parts of my chest. It startled me so much- and not in a good way at all- that I gasped clumsily against Royce's lips, pulling myself away from him to find his eyes staring back at me- bleary, a little annoyed, hazy, as if he was drunk.

"Something wrong, Rose?" he asked, sweet and concerned.

My breathing wasn't normal. My heart was thumping erratically in my chest. The anxiety that had lodged itself in my stomach was now crawling up my esophagus. I felt itchy and dirty all over. And the way Royce was looking at me- the fury and desperation concealed under his gaze of worry and love- made me feel like I was in the wrong. It made me feel like what he had just done was perfectly fine, and I was the one who was reacting inappropriately. So, swallowing hard, I shook my head.

"N-No," I managed to say. "Everything's fine."

He smiled, said, "Good," and kissed me lightly on the nose, before taking my hand and leading me out of the park.

* * *

"Rosalie," my mother said, watching me as I paced the dressing room of the shop, frustrated and nervous. "You really must calm down."

"Yes," Mrs. King cut in. "Dominique is a gem- she's never let me down."  
_  
Yes, but what if she's not a gem this time?!_ I wanted to spit back. _What if she's ruined my dress?_

My mother, Mrs. King, Vera, and Corinne were all sitting on the overstuffed couch and chairs that were set up in the dressing room of the city boutique, lounging around as if this were just another fitting. But it wasn't just another fitting. It had been weeks since I talked to Madame Dominique Guichard about my dress- weeks since I had confirmed a design and picked out fabrics. And it had been weeks since Vera's dress and Corinne's dresses were finished and fitted. So, where was _my_ dress? What was taking her such a God-awfully long time?

It made me frantic. It drove me absolutely insane.

And there was Corinne, picking at the platter of European chocolates on the table; Vera, looking around as if she had more important things to do- like she wanted to get away; my mother and Mrs. King gossiping and telling me to calm down in intervals.

I wanted to rip out someone's hair. 

Finally, Dominique- the small, stern French dressmaker- came around from the back of the changing curtain, a pinched smile on her face. "Eef you weel come around ze curtain I can 'elp you eento ze dress," she said in her lolling French accent.

Immediately, I scrambled through the curtain and stopped when I saw my dress, sighing. It looked exactly as I had imagined it would from the design, if not better. It was made of a shimmering off-white, with a tapered bust and prettily braided neckline. The tulip net sleeves were short, sheer and beautiful, and the skirt and train were full- made of a white-silk netting and looking entirely ethereal in the lighting of the shop.

Feeling much more relaxed, I let the shop assistant help me out of my skirt and blouse, kicked off my shoes, and gracefully stepped into the gown, faced away from the mirror as Dominique instructed the assistant to do up the pearl buttons in the back. When I was fastened into the gown she picked up the veil from a side table and pinned it into my hair.

"Turn," she instructed, her tongue pushing out the word in her lilted accent.

I did as she told me, and the moment I caught sight of myself in the mirror, I gasped.

"What is it, Rosalie?" my mother called through the curtain. "Is something wrong?"

But I couldn't respond. My throat was suddenly tight, my tongue heavy, and my lips immobile. All I could see was myself in that dress, and all I knew was that it was perfect- everything I could ever want or imagine. It was as if I was alone in that dressing room. I didn't think of my friends or my mother, I didn't even think of walking down the aisle to meet Royce in it- all I thought of was me, in the dress, with the veil falling before me. Just me in the dress. Nothing else.

"You will show your mother and friends, yes?"

I barely registered Dominique's words, but I nodded all the same.

And then she gently turned me around, and I couldn't see myself anymore, though I could still feel the dress around me- my _wedding_ dress- and it made my heart swell and my brain go to mush.

Dominique's assistant pushed back the curtain and it was suddenly all about me again. Corinne forgot about the chocolate and gasped, staring at me with wide, saucer-like eyes. Vera was suddenly very in the moment- no longer daydreaming about leaving- her eyes swimming as she stared at me. Mrs. King was smiling widely and nodding, as if she approved greatly. And my mother rose to her feet slowly, as if she had seen a ghost.

"Rosalie," she managed to say, and I could see her eyes shining with tears as she approached me. "My little girl."

I smiled. "Mother, please don't start crying."

She shook her head, saying, "N-No, you just- you look so beautiful."

"Good," I replied, feeling touched, but not wanting to show it. "That was intended."

"You air pleased wiz ze dress?" Dominique asked me. "Eet feets good?"

I nodded, turning around to stare at myself in the mirror again. After a moment, without tearing myself away from my reflection, I said, "It's perfect."

And it was. Because, staring at myself in that dress, made all my insecurities fall away; it made all of my doubts about getting married at all- about sharing my life with Royce- disappear. And suddenly I was one hundred percent sure. Suddenly, there was nothing I wanted in the world more than to marry Royce King II. I was sure that nothing would make me happier.

I could never have known that it was all going to fall apart in a matter of weeks.

* * *


	25. In Her End, Is Her Beginning

**Author's Note:** Happy Birthday _Heartless_! **Warning:** Readers are strongly cautioned, this chapter contains scenes of rape and violence. Though I tried to keep the worst parts inexplicit, I still feel the need to put some kind of disclaimer first. Just, if you're not comfortable with it, skip over it. If you read _Eclipse_, you'll get the gist. Thanks for reading! And so ends part one of _Heartless_!

**Note:** Dialogue has been changed from Stephenie Meyer's intended dialogue in _Eclipse_'s 'Unhappy Ending' for copyright issues and whatnot. Also, title of the chapter is a slightly changed quote by Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four  
In Her End, is Her Beginning  
April 20, 1934**

* * *

The day that ended my human life was April sixth, nineteen thirty-four. I woke up around eight- as I usually did- and had a leisurely breakfast with my mother, where we talked about the happenings of Rochester's upper class and chatted about the wedding plans- all of which were finished. And it's sad because, had I known that I was having the last real, one-on-one conversation I would ever have with my mother, I think I would have wanted to talk about something a little more important. Marriage, material importance, love, life? I don't know, I just know that it wouldn't have been a gossip session like it was every other day of my life with her.

"Do you have any plans for today?" she asked, as Cooky began clearing away our plates.

I didn't. Royce had already told me he needed to work late that day, and that afterward he was going to grab something to eat with his friends. "Freddie's friend from Atlanta's coming up and he wants me to help show him a good time," he told me over the phone the night before. "But you'll be fine without me, won't you?"

So, I told my mother, "Not yet. Royce told me he has to work late, and then entertain one of his friend's friends from Georgia." I shrugged. "I suppose I'll call Vera or something."

My mother didn't look like she liked this plan very much, but she didn't say anything against it as she drained her tea cup and placed it back on the table.

"Stanley has a birthday party to go to tonight, and Charles is going out with some friends to the movies," she explained. "And Mrs. King invited me to a meeting with her ladies' club," she preened as she said it, "so, do you think you could be home for dinner? So your father isn't eating alone?"

I nodded. "That's fine."

"Good," she smiled, standing as Cooky took away her empty tea cup. "Now, I think you've lazed around in your nightgown long enough, miss," she pretended to conceal her next command as a joke. "Time to dress for the day!"

And she swept out of the room, leaving me to shake my head and laugh at her constant need to control my life- something I _could_ laugh at then, because I was sure I would be married and out of her calculating claws within a week's time.

* * *

I remember what I wore that day. I remember because I always paid particular attention to my clothes, and it had been a ensemble that I was reasonably proud of. It consisted of a soft, dusty-lilac skirt that fluttered down, mid-shin, and a pressed white blouse with light, short sleeves. I pinned my hair halfway up, applied the slightest bit of blush and lipstick, and slipped into my favorite dove gray heels. It made me feel pretty, and light- like the almost-warm spring air outside.

By the time I had gotten dressed, my mother was already out- taking tea and bragging about my wedding plans to one of her friends, I'm sure- so I entertained myself around the house for a few hours.

First, I listened to the radio and flipped through some magazines. I quickly grew bored of that though, so I dropped the catalogues and rifled through my mother's writing desk instead. There, I found a whole slew of wedding plans, and I amused myself by looking through them for a time. She had all kinds of things written down that I had never even known about, and I soon found myself completely absorbed in the things that I was learning.

She had switched my choice of chicken, to fish.

There was an order form that instructed for the champagne to be colored pink for everyone in the wedding party. I had no idea she had made this arrangement, and I didn't like the idea in the least- I thought it was a touch too much.

The flower girl was the granddaughter of one of the Delano ladies. I thought my mother had called Vera to see if Patrick's niece could do it- I had at least met her- but she hadn't even tried.

She had changed my bouquet to all pink roses.

And the most selfish and underhanded? The guest list didn't include any of the Goodchilds, let alone Vera and Patrick.

I stared at the paper in front of me for a long moment, before I noticed I was breathing roughly out of my nose, clutching the edge of the desk with whitened fingers, practically seeing red.

Yes, Vera was in my wedding party, but my mother hadn't even given my best friend's husband an official invitation? What right did she think she had to take the reigns of my wedding? Why did she think it was all right for her to orchestrate this- like all of my life- without consulting me? My life wasn't hers! It didn't matter if she was my mother; my life was my own, I was an adult- and she was still trying to play the puppeteer to my marionette. It made me want to shake her- made me want to rip up all of the wedding plans and redo all of them on my own. But I couldn't do that. Not with all of the plans finished and the wedding a week away.

I tapped my pointer finger against the wood grain of the desk in frustration, thinking this over. Then, suddenly, an idea came to me.

Maybe I couldn't redo all of the wedding plans on my own, but I could make a difference- just as secretly as she had.

So, I scrambled through her desk a little more and found what I was looking for- hidden behind old shopping lists and already-opened letters.

Two invitations I had written out myself, one for Vera and Patrick, and one for Mr. and Mrs. Goodchild.

Carrying them with me, I got up and walked over to the telephone, where I had the operator put me through to Vera.

"Rosalie," she sounded surprised when she found it was me on the other line. "Hi."

"Hi, Vere," I said quickly, looking down at the envelopes in my hand, feeling my stomach clench in anger. "I was just wondering if you were doing anything tonight- after dinner? Royce has plans and I thought we could do something."

It sounded like she had moved the phone from one ear to another, before she said, "Well, I don't think I'll be able to go out tonight, but if you wanted to come over after dinner I was thinking about making cookies, so we could have dessert and chat- if you wouldn't mind staying in."

"That sounds fine," I replied. "Thanks."

"And you'll never believe it!" she declared suddenly, excited. "Henry's started sitting up on his own!"

This surprised me. "Already?" I asked. "That's amazing!"

"My son, the prodigy," she joked, laughing.

I laughed too, saying, "My godson, the wunderkind."

She laughed even louder, saying, "I like that- Henry Weissman, wunderkind."

"We should make him a plaque," I announced.

"We'll write out the inscription when you come over," she joked. "Bring a pen and paper."

I smiled against the phone, saying, "I will. See you then."

"See you then, Rose."

And we hung up.

* * *

When my father got home from work he was annoyed and grumpy- and when he was reminded that everyone was out for the night, he grew even more agitated. But then I retrieved his usual afterwork drink and told him I was staying home to eat with him, and he immediately softened.

"Oh, Rose," he said, taking the drink when I offered it to him. "You don't need to stay in just because everyone else deserted me."

I sat across from him at the table- in my mother's usual spot- and smiled as Cooky entered the dining room to serve. "I don't mind," I told him. "Besides, I couldn't leave you to have dinner by yourself."

As Cooky worked around us, my father smiled. "Royce doesn't mind that you're leaving him for your old man?" he teased.

"Royce had to work late," I told him sheepishly. "But even if he wanted to take me to Paris for dinner, I'd stay and have dinner with you."

I expected another smile and some gibe about Paris being nothing compared to the Hale household, but my father's face fell- amidst Cooky serving him potatoes- and he stared at me, unblinking.

Knotting my eyebrows, I looked back at him in confusion.

Absently taking a sip of his drink, and then clearing his throat slightly, he said, "Royce is working late tonight?"

I nodded. "That's right."

He looked away, staring at the wall- as if contemplating something.

"Why?" I prompted.

Looking back at me suddenly, he looked as if he was just remembering that I was there. "It's just strange," he said. "I was sure that Royce had already gone when I left to come home."

This made me knot my eyebrows and look at my water glass- as if I needed to stare at something other than a living person to figure this out.

"But I'm sure I was mistaken," my father said.

I looked back up and smiled faintly, feeling unsettled.

"He was probably in one of the offices- somewhere I couldn't see him," he amended hastily. "Or maybe he had a meeting with his father elsewhere."

I made myself nod, and then took a sip of water.

"I'm sure I'm mistaken," he said, and the wording almost made it seem like he was begging for me to believe him.

I smiled a reassuring smile and pretended as if I wasn't bothered.

But I know my father wasn't mistaken.

Royce didn't have to work late that day. He had lied to me.

* * *

When I was in Vera's living room later that night- all thoughts of Royce's maybe-lie pushed aside- Vera handed me a cookie and I handed her a thick, cream-colored invitation.

"What's this?" she asked, putting the cookie down to take the envelope with a furrowed brow.

"An invitation," I told her, the apology weighing down my tongue. "To the wedding."

She exchanged a glance with Patrick- who was sitting across the room, with Henry on his lap- and then carefully opened the envelope. When the invitation itself was in her hands, she stared at it for a good, long moment.

Finally, looking up, she said, "Corrine got hers weeks ago." She gave me a small, embarrassed smile. "When we didn't get one I just figured...."

She figured I didn't want her at the wedding because of what she had once said about Royce in the ladies' room of an Italian restaurant, because Patrick was a carpenter and Royce owned the city, because I was embarrassed by her dowdy clothes and housewife lifestyle, because Royce might have turned me into a snob.

"There was a mix-up," I told her. "My mother's a fool and didn't send out a whole batch of invites," I fibbed. Handing over her parents' invitation as well, I said, "Could you give this to your mother and father and tell them I'm sorry for the delay?"

Taking the invitation from me, she looked utterly dazed, but she nodded. "Sure- Of course."

"I know the wedding's only a week away," I said, brushing at the lap of my skirt. "But you were there for all of the fittings and you're my maid of honor, and I hope the formality of an invitation won't change anything-"

Vera took my hand and squeezed it, saying, "We wouldn't miss it for the world, Rose." She smiled. "With or without an invitation."

I smiled back at her, relieved.

"Besides, I couldn't let Corinne steal my place as maid of honor," she joked. "Also, I wouldn't have anywhere else to wear my dress."

Laughing, I said, "You're right! It would have been poor taste to wear it anywhere else!"

She shook her head at the absurdity of not being invited- especially as my maid of honor- and let go of my hand.

Turning my attention to Patrick and Henry, I said, "What's this I hear about Henry being a prodigy? I haven't seen him sit up on his own since I got here." I shook my head, as if scolding both of them, and said, "Tell your husband to stop coddling my godson."

Vera laughed again and stood, moving around the coffee table to show off the developmental talents of her son. And I wasn't jealous. I would have my own little Henry- my own little Royce King the Third- in time. So, instead of focusing on pushing away any kind of envy, I laughed and talked and interacted with my godson, enjoying Vera's motherhood with her, feeling at peace with my own destiny.

* * *

It was late when I left Vera's- later than I had intended to stay. We had lost track of time between laughing and playing with Henry, snacking on cookies, talking over the latest news of our friends and our lives, and joking about the life we were going to make sure Henry had- football icon, film star, explorer, president, any noteworthy career we could strap him into. So, by the time I looked at the clock, the night had flown by us.

"Oh," I started, once I had noticed the late hour. "I should go, or my mother will have my head."

Vera rose to her feet with me, picking Henry up with her, and looked out the nearest window- into the dark night that lay outside.

Looking back to me, she said, "It's awfully dark out- Maybe Patrick should walk you home."

I picked up my gray, velvet jacket- one of the things Royce had bought me the day of his apology shopping excursion for me- and slid into it, saying, "Don't be silly. It's not that far."

"At least call your father and have him come get you in the car," she suggested, bouncing Henry a little in her arms as his face screwed up in preparation for a good cry.

I buttoned up the jacket and considered this. It _was_ dark- as dark as night could possibly be- without the slightest trace of stars or the moon, and I'm sure my father wouldn't have minded coming out to get me. But then again, my mother would have commented on it and scolded me for being out so late- would have reminded me that I was a bride and that I should be staying home, preparing for my wedding. Either way, the street lamps were all alight and the walk really wasn't long at all, so I picked up my hat, pinned it securely to my hair, and grabbed my pocketbook, waving off Vera's suggestion.

"I don't need my father to come get me," I said lightly. "I'm an adult- I can get home on my own."

Vera looked wary, but she gave in and said, "All right, but will you call me when you get home so I know you're all right?"

"Yes, _mother_," I teased, walking with her and Patrick, out of the living room and into the hall. Patrick opened the door for me, and I hugged Vera good-bye, whispering- just so she could hear me- "Thank you for being my maid of honor."

When I pulled away she smiled at me and dipped her head the slightest bit in a nod. Patrick slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, smiling contentedly.

"I'll see you later, Henry," I said, leaning in and taking his hand for a mock shake. "My little prodigy."

"Wunderkind," Vera corrected me, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

Rolling my eyes jokingly, I muttered, "Right, wunderkind." Then, stepping out of the house, I said, "See you later!"

"Don't forget to call me when you get home!" Vera called down the steps as I crossed the short expanse of lawn.

I waved back, saying, "All right!" and stepped down from the curb.

As I made my way down the street, I found that the night was much colder than it had been when I had gone into Vera's house. It was so cold that my warm breath came out in little puffs of billowing steam, making me giggle to myself- because it was like I was some kind of fire-breathing dragon- and walk down the street briskly. The chill was refreshing, awakening, and it made me feel revitalized as I clicked my way around a corner, my dove-gray heels creating the only noise available in the intersection.

A street and a half later, the cold lost its magic. It was suddenly biting and sharp. My jacket wasn't thick enough for the rough winds that blew around me, my stockings not providing enough protection from the chill that crept up from my toes, to my very belly, and I began shivering in the dark. Goosepimples sprouted along my arms, legs, and hairline, causing me to rub at my velvet sleeves fruitlessly, fantasizing about a nice, hot bath, waiting for me at home. And maybe I would have some tea and a good catalogue, curled up under my blankets in bed.

_I shouldn't be fantasizing about warmth and blankets_, I scolded myself. My wedding was a week away! How could we have an outdoor service and reception with this frigid weather, I wondered. And Mrs. King and my mother would be beyond furious if we had to move the wedding- and _I_ didn't want my spring, garden wedding to be shifted to the indoors either- to the antique rooms of the King estate!

_Surely the weather will change within the week_, I tried to reassure myself. _Surely everything will be fine.  
_  
It was then- as I was reassuring myself about how the weather would turn out- that I turned a corner and heard them.

I instantly slowed my steps, made hesitant by the sound of broken, raucous laughter under the shadow of a dead streetlight. It was the laughter of men- rowdy, drunken men- and I could see the faint glint of other street lights in their bottles, could see the fire burning in their cigarettes as I slowly made my way closer.

Why didn't I call my father to walk me home? I berated myself. Why had I been so stupid and sure?

I told myself that it was fine though, that I would quickly walk past them and maybe they would make a comment about my 'pretty face' or something, but it would be fine.

"Rosalie Hale!" one of the voices called as I neared them, making me stop dead in my tracks as the men around the caller laughed messily.

Now that I was closer to the group I could see how well-dressed they were, how their slicked hair was losing its hold and falling into their familiar faces.

"There she is!" the voice said, and I recognized it- with a conflicting seize of relief and worry- as Royce's. "Where have you been, young lady?" he asked, walking over to me with a drunk man's gait. "We've been waiting for you for a very long time."

The mantra running through my head: Royce wouldn't hurt me- Royce wouldn't let anything happen to me.

"Hey, John- John, what did I tell you?" Royce said loudly, while grabbing my arm and pulling me to him. He smiled down at me- his eyes hazy and dark, his breath rank with alcohol- and then turned to his friend John- Freddie's friend from Atlanta- and asked, "Isn't she prettier than all your Georgia peaches?"

My heart was thumping in my chest. I had never seen Royce like this- had no way of knowing what he would do next- and I was terrified all of a sudden.

I didn't know this man in front of me, I realized- with the sickest kind of weight dropping into my stomach- I didn't know him at all.

The way he had gone from gripping my arm- digging the tips of his fingers into the material of my jacket- to snaking a hand around my waist, roughly pulling my body against his, made the sick feeling in my stomach become almost paralyzing. I wanted to vomit and cry and scream and ask Royce what was going on, all at once.

Looking over at his friends, I saw Freddie and Peter, and this new man- John- and they were all looking me over like a slab of meat they were thinking about buying.

John's smile was slow, stretching across his face with the speed of molasses. "I can't nearly tell," he drawled. "She's all covered up."

They all laughed at this, even Royce, and I stared at him in horror and outrage.

I was about to demand for him to explain himself- to scold him for being so disrespectful and hideous- but I couldn't, because he suddenly pulled the front of my jacket. His fist was so tight and he pulled so hard that the buttons popped off and clinked to the street- the sound foreign and strange in my ears. Then, with determined ferocity, he wrestled me out of the jacket- me, too shocked at what was happening to fight very much.

"Well," he crowed. "Show us what you look like under all those frills, Miss Hale!"

Then, he laughed and wrenched the hat from my head too, painfully ripping pins from my scalp. I made the mistake of crying out then- so surprised by the pain, by how violent everything was unfolding. The boys seemed to like that. My audible pain seemed to fuel their fire.

"What's the matter, Rosie?" Royce asked, getting so close to my face that I stumbled backward several steps. He reaked of hard liquor, sweat, and a sickly perfume I couldn't place. "Don't you want to spend the night with your fiance?"

I was shivering violently, stepping back farther and farther- away from the surrounding men- until I was standing against a brick wall.

"Come on," he continued, leaning against the wall over me, permeating my air supply with his wretched scent. "Give your betrothed a kiss."

He leaned his lips closer, sloppy and lewd, and I pushed him away- my hands fumbling to push, anywhere I could, finding purchase with his shoulder and chest and just shoving.

Now _he_ stumbled backward, and by the look on his face he didn't like it.

As he stared at me in building anger, I demanded, "What's the matter with you?" my voice harsh and low.

"I'm your fiance," he said, his voice firm now. "I'm your honey, your Royce, your _King_."

"You're a fool!" I spit. "You're a drunken fool!"

He slapped me across the face then, hard. My whole body rang from it, my eye stinging, my body falling against the wall from the impact.

"Don't you dare talk back to me, bitch!" he snapped at me.

The men catcalled and whistled at this, relishing the profanity and violence. I cursed the fact that we were in the business district- behind a bakery and a toy shop that were closed for the night.

I stared back at Royce as I leaned against the brick wall, looking into the face of some kind of monster. My brain was reeling. Who was this man in front of me? This couldn't be the same Royce who sent me flowers and wrote me a poem, the same Royce who bought me so many nice things and took me to so many fancy places. Was this the man I was going to marry? I didn't understand it- didn't know how I hadn't seen it. I was revolted by the fact that I planned on marrying this _person_ in a week's time.

My vision swirled in front of me as the realization set in, and I was sure that I was going to throw up.

Royce stepped forward and threw me up against the wall. My skull knocked against the stone, making me see stars. He pinned me there, even as the back of my head throbbed, and kissed me. And it wasn't like any kiss I had ever received from him- even the fierce, angry ones. This one was sloppy- his tongue and lips all over my mouth, teeth knocking against teeth, bitter-tasting saliva in my mouth, hot breath against my face- and the worst kind of fear racing through my veins. I struggled against him, but it was no use. Royce was a grown man. I was just a girl.

When he let go of me, I spit at his face- projecting his foul saliva right back at him.

He wrapped a hand around my throat then, pressing me up against the wall once more.

When his face was close to mine, he hissed, "Don't be such a fucking tease."

I fought against him- I really did, with every bit of strength in me- and I tried to scream, but the only sound that came out of my throat was the strangled sounds of someone in pain.

His other hand pulled at the bottom of my skirt and grazed my knee, moving to trail further. I kicked and thrashed against him, loosening his grip only slightly.

"Boys, Rosalie needs to be taught a lesson," Royce said to his friends, wiping the spit from his face. "I'm feeling generous enough tonight that I'll allow you to help me teach her- but, please, allow me to go first."

I didn't know what he was going to do- what he meant- until he handed me over for his friends to hold, and he started undoing his belt.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, my throat choked raw as I fought against the groping and pulling of his friends. "What are you _doing_?"

This is what Vera meant, wasn't it- about my wedding night? But this wasn't any bit decent- this wasn't in any way all right.

"You can't!" I croaked, trying to scream. "Please, just- please, leave me be, Royce."

He rolled his eyes and jerked his head at one of his friends- Peter- who kneed me in the stomach. And as I fell forward, he knocked my face against his knee as well. As I coughed and spit up blood, I thought of Nina- Peter's twin sister, their friend- and I wondered if she knew what they did. I wondered whose side she would have taken, had she known what was going on in the street that night. And then, strangely, I thought of Will- and for all the times I had thought I hated him for breaking my heart and being so self-righteous, he never would have done this to me, and I felt regretful and weary. Thinking of Will, of course, made me think of Vera.

_Vera won't get a call from me_, I thought. _She'll get worried and call my parents- Everything will fine._

My stomach roiled- angry and tempestuous- and I was dizzy again, and even though I was in the grasp of three or four men, I lost my balance and collapsed to the ground.

"Even better," Royce said, laughing sinisterly. "Just flip her on her back."

They laughed, and moved me so that I was looking up at the sky, and the tears started falling before I knew what was happening. And then Royce was over me. Inside of me. Every bit of him was filling me up- his smell, his laughter, his frightening eyes, his disloyalty. And I cried out, but he covered my mouth.

"Come on, my little Rosie," he said, right into my ear. "Do your husband proud and take it like a lady."

It didn't matter when I fought. Everything hurt just the same. Every inch of me. Inside. Out. I was bruised, bleeding- my body ripped open, my heart all but trampled in the cold, Rochester streets. And with every hit, every peel of laughter, every betrayal, every humiliation, I broke just a little more, until I just couldn't fight. There was nothing left to fight for. They had broken me in the most inhumane of ways. They damaged me so severely- emotionally, physically, in every way possible- that I was sure I couldn't come back from that- didn't want to come back from that. And besides, no one was coming to save me- I was sure of that.

And then, when they were stumbling away from me, leaving me for dead, my clothes ripped around me, stained in blood, still lying in the street, I heard Freddie say something to Royce.

"You'll need to find a new bride, Royce."

Royce laughed particularly hard at that one, replying with, "Maybe after I learn some patience."

When the city was cold and empty around me, I stared at the night sky, in so much pain and humiliation that I was relishing the thought of death- of the most permanent end to my suffering- and I knew it couldn't be long before it happened. What with the intensity of the pain throbbing through every inch of my body, the blood caked onto my skin, the way my heart was pounding the strangest rhythms- as if it was going to rocket out of my chest- and the way my brain was humming, like it too was going to combust. I knew there was no way I was going to survive. And I didn't care.

My parents would cry. I was their favorite. My brothers would be lost- a gaping hole in their childhood and the family. Vera and Patrick- My chest ached for my best friend. What would she do without me? I didn't want to leave her behind- didn't want her to have to endure my death and my humiliation for me. And what would Henry do without his godmother? It was too much for me to bear, and I closed my eyes, allowing the sobs to silently rack my brutally beaten body, not sure the emotional strain- on top of everything else- wouldn't kill me.

I felt something- infinitesimally colder than the air around me- land on my cheek, and then melt there. And I opened my eyes to see a million tiny snowflakes falling towards me.

The pain was surreal though, and it made my head swim- made the snowflakes look like they were dancing overhead, and it was beautiful.

I don't know how long I was in the street for, but it got to a point that I couldn't think of my friends or family- couldn't find anything to anchor me to this life. All I wanted was a release from my pain and the nightmares that were already plaguing my mind- if death was that release, then fine. But I wasn't dying. And no one had come looking for me. So I just shivered in the street, too hurt- stiff and catatonic- to do anything but stare at the snowflakes that stopped melting against my ice cold skin.

Delirium prevented me from knowing that someone was standing over me until a golden, blonde head appeared in my field of vision.

Because the Cullens stood out so much in society, I knew right away who it was. Dr. Carlisle Cullen. He was so beautiful and statuesque, standing over me, but something about him made me flinch, and I closed my eyes.

And suddenly his hands were moving aside my tattered clothes, and he was looking over my injuries- a cracked rib, the gash in the back of my head, a bleeding nose, the flow of blood that hadn't stopped since it had begun, everything. But he wasn't making anything better. If anything, I was in more pain- ashamed beyond sanity- and I wanted him to stop.

I was annoyed, felt like he was interfering in what would be my sweet release, and I tried to speak. But I couldn't even think of words that would express what I felt, so I let my eyes slide shut and pretended he was gone.

That proved impossible, because he picked me up off the ground, and- before I could even form a full thought around this- I was flying in his arms.

* * *

**End Of  
Part One: Leaving Dusk**

* * *

**Author's Note:** *heaves enormous sigh of exhaustion* I had given up on having the first part of _Heartless_ done in exactly a year, but- don't ask me how- I actually did it! Special thanks to Angeliss, for her extremely insightful reviews and our back-and-forth emails; to Caitlin, for letting me take her to creepy, abandoned buildings, and also for collaborating with me on all things Rosalie Hale; to Joanna, for reading all of the chapters and getting mad at me when I don't tell her I'd posted.... and for braiding my hair and owning every awesome Disney movie known to man; and to everyone who's read and reviewed- you guys are stellar! Now, if you want stop reading here- leaving this as a story in itself- that's fine. But, if you're interested in Rosalie's journey as a newborn vampire, the killing spree she goes on, her meeting Emmett, and then her dealing with Bella, then, by all means, continue. The next part is going to be a separate story, titled 'Heartless: Entering Night.' Don't expect it up right away though, because I've all but abandoned my other fan fictions to hammer out this part like it was nobody's business, so I need to catch up on that. And also, school starts in a week, so I'll have that. Ew. Anyway, thank you for staying loyal to the story! Hope to see everyone following to the next part!


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